


BESTIA CONCEPTVS OVIVM

by PomegranatePomsom



Category: Everyman HYBRID, Tribe Twelve
Genre: Body Horror, Cohabitation, Disgusting Monsters being Loving, Face-Fucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misuse of Hosts, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Oviposition, Rimming, Tentacles, Trans Male Character, Trauma, dubcon, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomegranatePomsom/pseuds/PomegranatePomsom
Summary: One morning, HABIT and the Observer show up in Noah's house with a proposition: Have their children, or else.





	1. A Maculate Conception.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm sorry for taking such along break! And also for writing a fic for yet another new fandom! I'm bad, I know. I hope you like it anyway. 
> 
> This is the longest fic I've written in a long time, and it's multi-chapter too! Wow! Here's hoping chapter two comes out soon! :9
> 
> (If you're involved in TT, EMH or SF in any way, and you're reading this, know that I'm sorry and I love you.)
> 
> EDIT (Jan 12, 2018): I'm still working on the second chapter. In the meantime, I made some edits to chapter one.

Four months into his anti-psychotics and three months into paranormal-related radio silence, Noah Maxwell was sure he’d reached a calm point in his life. Certainly, he still didn’t feel stable enough to go back to work, and he only went to classes when it was mandatory-- but he could exist. His day-to-day was filled with quiet; dark shadows barely ever graced the corners of his vision. He felt something resembling peace and he was, dare he say, content.

 

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in January. He’s safe and comfortable beneath haphazardly strewn blankets; gentle light filters in through the blinds on the windows. A brief glance at the clock by his bed tells him it’s already past one in the afternoon, but he’s still half-asleep, with no intention of waking up. And in fact, he rolls over stubbornly, away from the clock-- away from the sun.

 

He’s on the cusp of sleep, stepping through that wonderful threshold… when a sharp voice cuts through the silence of his empty apartment.

 

His eyes fly open and a cool chill runs down his back. He clutches the edge of his comforter, ready to throw it off, when he pauses. No, no, he reasons. This must be his imagination getting ahead of him. No one’s here-- no one’s visited him in forever. So he holds his breath, strains his hearing. He catches the faint sound of conversation, and his heart leaps up into his throat.

 

As quietly as he can, he climbs out of bed and moves around his room, looking around for anything resembling a weapon. A quick search yields a heavy-duty flashlight and steak knife from last night’s dinner. Mentally, he curses himself for not keeping something adequate by his bedside.

 

Grasping the light in one hand and the knife in the other, he pokes his head out of his room. After making sure the coast is clear, he emerges into the hall, and slinks to the kitchen. He presses himself as flat against the wall as he can, and listens. There’s light chatter, pocked occasionally by grating laughter. The conversation is warm, almost as if the trespassers belonged there. If Noah weren’t so petrified, he might feel right at home.

 

He grinds his teeth, refocusing. He has to confront these fuckers, and that’s exactly what he does. He jumps out from his hiding spot, weapons and teeth bared. He opens his mouth to scream at the bastards, but the sight of them makes his resolve fizzle and only a rather loud sigh escapes him.

 

HABIT looks up from his place at the stove, raises a hand in salutation and gives Noah a smile too saccharine for any demon to make. “H-ey there! Good morning, sleepyhead. _So_ glad you decided to join us!”

 

Noah wants to tell him to fuck off, but he locks eyes with the thing at the table, and the urge is quickly smothered. The Observer is watching him (always watching him) over its (his?) glass of orange juice. It smiles (like HABIT, too sweet) when their gazes meet.

 

“Hello, Noah,” he says, gently. “Would you like to join us? HABIT’s making breakfast, and I promise the pig is regular sized.”

 

If that’s supposed to be a joke, Noah doesn’t get it. All he gets is that there are two horrible monsters in his kitchen-- one of which has been actively trying to kill him for like five years. He doesn’t move.

 

After another few minutes, HABIT finishes what he’s cooking and he shuffles over to the table, placing plates on it. He wipes his hands on his frilly purple apron and pulls a seat out for Noah.

 

“Pop a squat, junior. You might as well. We’re just here to talk--” he laughs. “And put that knife down before you poke your eye out.”

 

Noah sits, moving with the reluctance of a witness at a Russian spy’s trial. When he does, HABIT pushes him in and takes a seat beside him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t use the table to sucker-punch Noah in the gut.

 

It’s quiet when Noah takes his place-- no talking, no eating, no nothing. Just a slow, agonizing crawl of time, in which the three of them exchange glances and changes of body language. Noah stares down at his plate (eggs, bacon, ham, sausage-- why so much meat? He can’t even eat this shit!), until a hand on his arm nearly sends him through the roof.

 

“Easy, tiger, _e-asy_. No need to get so wound up!” HABIT pats his arm, and almost doesn’t look offended when Noah pulls away. “I bet you’re wondering why we came over for brunch today, aren’cha, buddy?”

 

Noah almost shoots him a look, but decides not to press is luck just yet. “Kinda, yeah. The two of you are usually onto the trying-to-kill-me phase of things by now.”

 

The beings before him look at each other and giggle. The Observer places his hands on the table, and HABIT takes them in his own. “Well Noah, if you must know, it’s because your father and I are concerned about you. You’re young, but you just don’t go out like your friends do. It’s just not healthy for a college boy to be such a homebody.”

 

The two of them pout and pretend to look concerned; it pisses him right off. He slams his fists on the table and stands up, snarling at their fake shock. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, and flips his plate in some half-hearted rebellion. Suddenly feeling brave, he thrusts his finger at them, daring them to touch him. “This shit isn’t cute, you crusty fucks! If you got shit to say, say it! If you wanna start something, then do it already!”

 

The adrenaline wears off quite quickly when the two neither attack him, nor respond right away. His anger simmers into a cold sweat and he gulps, audibly. He lowers his hand slowly and his whole body tenses.

 

“Are you done?” The Observer asks him; Noah nods.

 

HABIT sighs, long and hard, as if _he’s_ the one most hindered by this whole shebang. As if they were the victims here and Noah had been the one fucking up their lives for the better part of a decade. He gets to his feet, but drags the action out, like it’s a chore just to stand. His head flops lazily to the side and he gives Noah a side-eyed, tight-lipped glare. The Observer joins him at his side, one hand coiled around HABIT’s arm to attempt placating him, the other resting on his own abdomen.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid. We _want_ his help.”

 

“But we don’t _need_ it.”

 

“But we want it.”

 

“What do you mean?” Noah interjects. He really should be petrified, but at this point, his fear and his annoyance are duking it out for control over his brain. He has more reason to be cautious and fearful if he’s being honest with himself, but regardless, he really just wants these chucklefucks out of his place.

 

“It’s why we’re here-- not simply to play with you.” The Observer assures. He slaps HABIT’s back and the man(?) straightens up.

 

“Right, well.” HABIT clears his throat. “Noah, there comes a time in every creature’s life where he decides he wants to settle down. I’ll uhh, spare you the boring courtship bullshit, but long story short, I was lucky enough to hook _this_ hot little pile of tentacles.” He gives the Observer a squeeze, planting a kiss on his ear. The Observer snickers; Noah gags.

 

“For a long time, he and I have been trying to start our own little family. You know, the American dream! Two-point-five thousand kids and a white picket fence. Something cozy, not too extreme. But for the last couple... centuries, millennia? -- Shit, it doesn’t matter.-- we haven’t had any luck. We thought it would be easier over on this plane, but my _loving darling_ was hellbent on fucking around in a mummy for a hundred fucking years.”

 

That earns him a slap upside the head, one hard enough to make Noah recoil from the sound. HABIT just rubs his skull. “But it’s different now. He’s got a host that isn’t past its expiration date.” He looks at Noah, eyes wide, fingers flared. “And a damn miracle happened! Last month he told me he’s carrying eggs! My mate is finally _brooding_!”

 

“So what the hell does that have to do with me?” Noah asks, not having an inkling of an idea, but not liking it anyway.

 

“Glad you asked!” HABIT puts his arms around The Observer, almost protectively. “Ya see, his twink of a host could never carry these eggs to term. He’d probably die if he tried-- the host, I mean, not my Eyeballs. What’s-his-face?”

 

“Kevin,” The Observer states.

 

“Yeah, Kevin. That kid whose name is like, a weird anagram of your other host’s name.” HABIT pauses. “What’s up with that anyway, babe? Did you do that on purpose?”

 

The Observer flashes a mysterious smile and simply shrugs.

 

“Anyway-- what do you say, Noah, sport? You willing to play surrogate for a pair of upstanding citizens like us?” HABIT asks it so coolly, so nonchalantly, like he’s wondering if Noah might bring beer to the tailgate party and not asking him to carry something otherworldly in his fucking intestines.

 

Noah, hating both HABIT and The Observer’s stupid fucking guts, and having seen the movie _Alien_ (1979) starring Sigourney Weaver, graciously turns them down. Or, at least, he chokes out a “No fucking way!” in the nicest way he can muster. “What kind of idiot would agree to that?”

 

The atmosphere suddenly turns dark, as if Noah’s attitude is the weight that tugs down the proverbial horror switch. The air seems to become thicker, denser. HABIT laughs, but two voices reverberate: the huskier version of Evan’s voice-- the one he was accustomed to-- and another voice altogether. It’s something warped, inhuman. Wrong. Noah’s skin prickles with goosebumps.

 

“Noah, I don’t think you _get_ it.” HABIT has shed the niceties now; his twin voices drip with dark venom. “We were asking, but we weren’t really _asking_ \-- understand?”

 

“Yeah, I understand,” Noah says with a nod. His voice betrays him and he fumbles over his words. “But I-I don’t give a shit. I’m not doing it. Fuck you--both of you! And fuck your stupid kids too!”

 

Another long sigh on HABIT’s part. He looks to his partner, handsome little face all painted up with anger. The Observer smiles patiently, patting his cheeks, tweaking his nose. While the two of them are distracted, Noah begins to shuffle away from the table. Five steps, six, eight-- ten steps away, he turns, catching The Observer extending a hand in his direction as he does.

 

Soon he’s facing away from the kitchen. He’s sure he’s escaping, but a flash of silver catches his eye, and he stops just short of impaling himself on a butcher’s knife.

 

“Did I say we were done, little man? Did Papa and Daddy dismiss you from the table?”

 

“N-”

 

“Yeah, that’s right, dumbass. The answer is ‘no’.” The knife is pressed, blade down, against his stomach, then dragged up, up, up to his throat, where the point rests against his Adam’s apple. “I dunno if you think this is, uhh, some kind of game, Noah, but it’s not. The only choice you’re getting here is whether you do it willingly, or we _make_ you do it. That’s it.”

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

HABIT smiles-- it’s an evil smirk, familiar but gut-wrenching; seeing it now, Noah actually prefers the candy-coated looks from earlier. “You don’t wanna know what I’ll do to ya, Noah. You really, really don’t.”

 

“You can’t-- you can’t kill me,” Noah refutes. His mouth is getting dry. “You need me for your stupid game-- _he_ needs me to get Karl’s journal.”

 

The knife leaves his throat; HABIT actually stumbles back a few steps. He looks utterly shocked, hand gripping at his shirt, and Noah thinks he’s got him… until HABIT puffs out his cheeks, deflating with a _pfft!_ He howls with laughter, clutching his stomach.

 

He places his hand on the side of Noah’s head, pushing him into the wall and looking past him. “Babe!” HABIT cries between fits. “Darling he-- he says I can’t _kill_ him! He says we _need_ him! Can you-- can you believe this shit?”

 

The Observer joins in on the cacophony, his screeching paralyzing Noah on the spot. His whole body goes stiff-- he breaks out in a cold sweat. His vision blurs and his stomach does its best attempt at a Bonaly. They’re amused, certainly, but the things Noah had said weren’t lies… _right_? If they were, he couldn’t have stayed alive this long. He would be long dead, ash in the wind, just like Milo. But he was still here, because they still have a use for him. He makes himself believe it, otherwise he might really go off his rocker.

 

When the noise finally dies down, HABIT drapes his arm around Noah. “You seem to have a… fundamental misunderstanding of your purpose, Maxie-boy. You have overestimated your worth. It’s understandable-- after all, humans are dumb as dirt, they pull this kinda shit all the time. So how ‘bout you and me set the record straight, huh?”

 

He points over their shoulders with the knife. “Eyeballs over there? I love him, I do. But to be honest, I don’t give two flying fucks about his session or his cycle or _whatever_ it’s called. Hell, man, I barely care about _mine_. And that’s only because, guess what-- I’m the star. In his? I’m not even listed as a supporting role. The dude up top doesn’t even doodle me in the script margins anymore.

 

“What I’m saying is, if you die and he has to-- reset his session? I wouldn’t bat an eye. In fact, since his session is over when you deliver the goods, killing you might be a good thing-- let’s him stay topside for a while longer.” The knife is back at Noah’s throat. “Think about that, little man.”

 

Hot tears prick the corners of Noah’s eyes and his teeth chatter in frustration. What the hell is he supposed to do? HABIT might be bluffing, but if he isn’t, Noah’s fucked. These otherworldly shitstains are lethal when they mean to be, but figuring out when that is can be damn near impossible. He could push the buttons more, test his luck-- or he could swallow the lump in his throat and play along, see how far this goes.

 

He decides that he wants to live.

 

“What do you need me to do?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his bitterness.

 

HABIT makes a satisfied sound, a breathy little _ahhh_. He grabs Noah by the arms and flings him towards his open bedroom door. He points at him. “I need you to get in there and get down to your skivvies. Get nice and comfy, ‘cuz you are about to be in for the ride of your _life!_ ”

 

Noah Maxwell, resigned to his fate, sulks back to his room. His heart is threatening to beat out of his chest; his eyes and sinuses burn in a red alert to cry. But he refuses to show that weakness and, as he strips out of his clothes, he attempts to console himself.

 

Maybe it won’t be so bad, he reasons. They’re desperate, so whatever they have planned, it’ll be quick. They won’t drag it on.

 

Silently, he begs, _please don’t let them drag it on_.

 

He’d only just finished his little pep talk--and finished kicking off his pants-- when the guests of horror slide in past the threshold. The odd couple take a moment to look him over, eying him like an A5 cut of Kobe beef. The Observer shuts and locks the door behind them, as if Noah hadn’t already consented to... whatever the hell this was.

 

“Huh,” HABIT says, pursing his lip. “You’re even skinnier than I remember. The baggy clothes really throw it off.”

 

“If I’m too thin, you could always find someone else,” Noah offers, flatly.

 

“Oh no, no, don’t worry about that! You’re not gonna be skinny much longer.” He flutters his eyelashes at The Observer. “Right, doll?”

 

The Observer grins and bites his tongue, body quivering in excitement. The pair shift simultaneously-- as if a single unit-- hunching, hungry, ready to pounce--

 

And they’re on him in a heartbeat. Noah barely has time to yelp before he’s pushed down onto the bed, boxed in by monsters at his sides. HABIT takes holds of his wrists, holding them fast against the mattress, even as Noah squirms. The Observer cups his chin, hovering ominously over him.

 

His head is tipped back, and his own personal tormentor dips lower, lower-- in too close. Noah twists away, clenches his jaw, screws his eyes and his lips shut-- but it’s futile. He feels pressure right above his jaw, fingers pushing into his cheeks. It’s bearable for a moment, but after just a few seconds his pathetic human body gives in and his mouth pops open.

 

His lips are seized in an instant. The kiss that the Observer delivers is merciless, the antithesis of tender. Their lips are crushed together, teeth practically clicking on impact. Something long, snaking, slimy fills the empty space in Noah’s mouth. He shrieks around it, kicking up his legs, biting down. Perhaps unready to be severed, the slithering organ withdraws from Noah's mouth, exiting as fast as it entered. The Observer peppers his lips with butterfly kisses before he relinquishes Noah.

 

They change custody of Noah’s wrists and soon HABIT is the one stealing kisses. He’s almost gentle in comparison to his companion, licking Noah’s lips and actually giving pause before shoving his tongue down the man’s gullet. Noah lets himself pretend that he’s enjoying wrestling tongues with perhaps the most reprehensible being this side of the veil-- he even manages a moan that’s only mostly fake. Anything that kept them happy kept the ball rolling.

 

HABIT pulls away from him and a long, nasty string of saliva connects them, putrid and pornographic. A soft hand sympathetically wipes it away and is joined by a multitude of others that trail down Noah’s body, tweaking, rubbing any spot that could be misinterpreted as an erogenous zone.

 

He doesn’t watch them. Instead, he idly contemplates what it is they’re trying to do. Are they trying to get him turned on? Because if they are, they’re really shit at it. Even when grubby little hands (HABIT’s probably, if the rough treatment is any guess) grope at his dick through his underwear, he can’t bring himself to get into it. This pair of shits aren’t exactly interested in making him feel good, so why bother trying to give him a boner at all? He can’t think of any other reason they would put this much effort into this, unless--

 

“UGH!” he cries, sitting up, pushing their hands away. “Get your fucking paws off me!”

 

“What is it now?” The Observer asks, with the faintest, nigh-undetectable touch of annoyance.

 

“I changed my mind! I’m not--” Noah sort of swats his hand between them. “I’m not letting you put eggs in my dick!”

 

The Observer and HABIT slowly turn to one another, staring at each other for far too long. When they return their attention to Noah, the looks on their faces make his cheeks light up in a nice little cocktail of shame and frustration. He expects them to laugh at him, but they honestly seem too dumbfounded.

 

“We’re not gonna-” Even HABIT, so lewd and loquacious, finds himself struggling to form an appropriate response. “What the fuck?”

 

“Why else would you be trying to make me get it up, man! We all know this isn’t a- a friendly threesome! We’re not just a bunch of dudes seeing how far ‘no homo’ really goes! You’re fucking demons and you’re gonna put fucking eggs in-” A hand clasps firmly over his mouth, shutting him up.

 

“Can you please be quiet, dude?” The Observer asks. “Just for like, a minute?”

 

Noah growls behind The Observer’s hand, trying (and failing) to sink his teeth into it. Before he can lash out further, HABIT yanks him into his lap, shoving a hand down his shorts and giving his dick a few lazy strokes. He leans in close to Noah’s ear, murmuring in soft, drawn-out words. “Hey man, calm down. Can’t a couple of guys give their surrogate a good time while they stuff him? Ya know, spoonful of sugar and all that shit?”

 

Noah can’t really argue with that logic, he supposes. He didn’t really want to argue at all, actually. At the end of the day, how much good had fighting fate done him? He’d had the luck and win record of a three-legged racehorse. It was incredibly doubtful that kicking and screaming would do him much good here.

 

Not to mention-- HABIT’s hand was suddenly feeling incredibly good.

 

Noah relaxes into the touch, lets those calloused hands work him over. His body heats up quickly and before he can even think about it, his dick is achingly hard. As he leans his head back, he spreads his legs wide enough to drape over HABIT’s own and tries to ignore the bastard’s triumphant sounds.

 

They stay entangled for a time, HABIT jacking him off, running his sharp teeth along the bare skin of Noah’s neck and shoulder. Noah will occasionally buck his hips, letting beautiful little “ _ah!_ ”s and “ _fuck!_ ”s escape from his lips. It isn’t long before heat is pooling up in his stomach and he’s about to fucking lose it.

 

“I’m gonna come,” he chokes out. HABIT quickens his hand and oh, Noah’s close. He’s there, he’s teetering on the edge and-

 

Two, maybe three strokes away from Noah’s sweet release, HABIT removes his hand, leaving Noah to desperately hump at the air. “What the fu-” his speech fizzles out, and he tries to glare at HABIT through the fog in his brain.

 

“You don’t get it that easy, little man,” HABIT teases. He pushes Noah away from him, sending him toppling over his knees and landing face-first on the mattress. HABIT kneels behind him, yanking down his shorts and giving his ass an unyielding _slap!_ Noah gasps, and before he knows it, HABIT is yanking up his hips and pressing his tongue to his ass.

 

“W-Wait-!” Noah cries out, as the hot, slick organ enters him. He clutches fistfuls of his sheets and tries to keep himself from shouting, from giving them that satisfaction. But considering that he’d never had more than a finger in his ass before, this thick, _moving_ thing inside of him is making it damn near impossible. And it’s long--too long; it presses against his guts inelegently. He’s close to begging when the tongue suddenly leaves his body.

 

He’s about to ask him what his fucking problem was, when HABIT licks a long trail from his balls to his tailbone and plunges his tongue back inside. The treatment is just as sloppy and harsh as the first time, with just a touch of the edge taken off. His poor insides are prodded at again before the tongue is removed and the cycle repeats.

 

The agonizing treatment seems to drone on forever, despite the fact that each sequential tongue-lashing makes him feel just a little bit warmer. Noah had begun crying minutes ago; his mouth hung agape and he was drooling like a fool. He was quite certain his brain was poaching in the boiling pot that was his confounded head.

 

At some point during this ordeal, The Observer moves in, kneeling before him and stroking his hair. If the crooked grin on his face meant anything, the amusement he got from watching his mortal enemy squirm is undeniable. Noah wants to be bitter about him sitting there, touching him so casually, but it’s impossible to be angry when he can’t even remember what anger feels like.

 

The world around him blurs in a fog of throbbing pain. He swears he’s on the cusp of losing his mind-- when HABIT finds the sweet little spot inside of him. He touches it with his disgusting tongue and Noah is brought right back to reality. Stars shoot in front of his eyes, his whole body tenses. His hips buck carelessly and he nearly shoves his ass back into HABIT’s stupid nose. A lewd moan escapes from Noah’s lips; the excess drool collecting in his slut mouth runs onto the sheets, pooling below him and soaking his sweat-drenched face further.

 

“You’re making quite the mess, Noah.” The Observer scolds flatly. “What a bad boy you are.”

 

Noah can’t spit out any venom, can’t protest-- he can barely fucking breathe. The overstimulation has his tongue (and his insides) in knots, and it only takes a few more jabs at his prostate before he’s once again at his limit. His eyes roll back and he’s breathing erratically, panting like a dog in heat. He clenches around the hot muscle inside him, he’s walking on the tightrope, he’s about to slip and he’s sure HABIT is going to deny him again--

 

But he doesn’t, and it’s _beautiful_. Noah is hit by the best orgasm of his life, one that blooms in his belly and spreads to every inch of him. His long-neglected dick stiffens against his belly, shooting his load all over himself and the messy sheets. Desperate for purchase, Noah clings to The Observer, shoving his face into the warm fabric of his hoodie. He takes in the smell of him, and, in the moment, The Observer was the only thing keeping him stable, keeping him grounded.

 

Even through the haze of his orgasm, the irony of this wasn’t lost.

 

HABIT lets him ride out the high as long as possible, waits until darling Noah stops humping the air, before pulling out. Noah’s knees give out and he falls to his side, head and torso still held up by The Observer.

 

HABIT scrunches up his nose, folding and tucking his tongue back into his mouth. “Blegh! Noah, you really oughta clean your ass more often, my man. Tastes like something died in there.”

 

“Fuck you,” Noah murmurs, with all the weight and hostility of a sleepy kitten. The Observer has gone back to stroking his hair, and it feels amazing.

 

“Ohh, we’re gonna be fucking you all right, bud.” HABIT says, turning his attention to his lover. “What do you think, babe? Is he ready for ya?”

 

“I think so,” The Observer replies, looking down at Noah. He places a soft kiss on his forehead. “Can you sit up?”

 

“Yeah,” Noah murmurs, though he does so with a bit of trouble. Since he’s up, he takes the opportunity to kick his shorts off, tossing them to the floor. Meanwhile, the Observer sheds his host’s many layers: the striped hoodie, the long-sleeved sweater, the tank top, the undershirt, the compression undershirt under the undershirt (shit, how many layers does one guy need?)-- until he was bare-chested and free.

 

He sighs, content, hands returning to his mid-section. Noah hadn’t noticed it under all the bulk of his clothing, but now the rounded bulge in Kevin’s normally flat belly was obvious. Curiously, Noah touches the distended stomach, running two fingers down the curve of it. When he applies a bit of pressure, he finds it solid, and that knowledge makes him feel… weird.

 

“You’ll be just like this soon, Noah.” The Observer comments. If it’s meant to be comforting, it’s not.

 

The Observer stands, taking the few wobbly steps needed to join HABIT at the headboard, all the while avoiding the mess Noah has made on the sheets. HABIT, ever the romantic, holds his arms up, should his lover fall and need to be caught. The Observer doesn’t, but happily settles in HABIT’s arms anyway. The pair gaze at each other silently, faces flushing, foreheads touching. HABIT’s hand settles at the base of the Observer’s stomach and they chuckle to each other softly. The sight of them is odd, peaceful. To a layman they’d probably look like a normal, happy couple. It fucks Noah up.

 

Wordlessly, HABIT gathers up Noah’s pillows, fluffing them up into a nest for his love to lean back on. When the Observer settles into place, HABIT glares daggers into Noah.

 

“All right, you fuck, get up here. You’re gonna do anything Eyeballs tells you to do, and if you do anything to hurt him or our kids, I’ll fucking kill you.” Oh hell, he’s got a butterfly knife. When the fuck did he get that? “Got it?”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Noah nods, eyes fixing on the knife. “Sure.”

 

“Good. Move your ass!”

 

Noah scrambles up to the Observer’s side, quiet, waiting for orders. The bastard pulls him in for another kiss. Seriously, what was with these guys and kissing? “Treat me like a lover, Noah. Seduce me. Get my _fire_ started.”

 

His emphasis of the word feels like a joke, and Noah is just barely able to avoid rolling his eyes. Instead, he presses his lips to the Observer’s neck, sucking and nipping the flesh there. The Observer graciously cocks his head to allow Noah better access, but makes no sound or comment, approving or otherwise. It’s annoying, if Noah were to be honest, but he had enough sense not to bitch about it. He cups one of the Observer’s pectorals, taking the nipple between two fingers and tugging on it. That earns him a satisfying little jolt and he keeps at it, quickly dishing out the same treatment on the second one. He manages to pry out a little moan from the Observer, and it shoots right to his ego.

 

“That’s what you like, huh?” Noah murmurs in his ear, voice husky and low. “Freaky as you are, you’re turned on by this vanilla shit?”

 

Now he was curious, morbidly so. He kisses down the Observer’s chest, taking one of the perky nipples between his teeth. He sucks on it, bites down until the Observer’s hips jump. The one in his fingers is squeezed hard, and he digs his nails into it in an attempt to match the sensations. The Observer has to bring a hand up to hide the expression on his face, and it makes Noah’s whole damn year.

 

It’s a short-lived joy, however-- the appeal of sucking on a dude’s tit quickly fades, so Noah moves down, down, fluttering his lips over the Observer’s chest and the quiet expanse of his stomach. He lingers for a moment, but keeps going down, down, until he has to move between the Observer’s twiggy legs to continue. He hesitates.

 

“Why did you stop?” the Observer asks. His features are soft, his tone honey-sweet.

 

“Right, sorry.” Noah remains confused for a moment, unsure what to do with his hands, but settles on the Observer’s belt. He unbuckles it, letting the ends flop to the sides naturally. He unbuttons his fly, pulling down the zipper slowly. Curling his fingers into the waistband, he gives the jeans a little tug, prompting the other to raise his hips. The pants come off easily, along with a rather nice pair of briefs. Noah tosses them into the growing clothing landmass known as Mt. Fuckit. He spreads The Observer’s legs, a bit scared as to what he might find. Surely a being as paranormal would have some pretty fucked up junk. Some sort of weird alien dick, probably. Maybe with barbs, or something that glowed bright green or moved on its own.

 

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was The Observer-- or Kevin, rather-- to have a normal-looking pussy.

 

The gears in his brain halt. Unsure of how to proceed, he stalls.

 

“It isn't polite to stare," says the creature, infamous for spying and staring, after several moments. "I suggest you continue, Noah."

 

 His words are as thinly-veiled as a threat can be, and in the corner of his eye, Noah spots HABIT idly flipping his knife. Noah swallows the lump in his throat.

 

Tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, he bows, grasping the underside of a thigh for balance. Using his thumb, he parts the outermost folds of the Observer’s core, taking the engorged t-cock between his lips, sucking it slowly, experimentally.

 

He must be rather good at it, because a hand reaches down, tangling in his hair. Not pulling, but resting, reassuring. Hot, breathy moans spurning him, Noah pushes two cautious fingers inside of the Observer. Holy shit he’s wet, and his walls grip Noah in a vice. Despite himself, Noah can feel his dick springing back to life.

 

He presses the fingers against the roof of The Observer’s pussy, rubbing, hoping he might find that cozy little bundle of nerves. His fingers meet a rough patch of texture and the body he’s inside of jumps. He rubs at the spot furiously, sucking, tugging at The Observer’s cock. The Observer arches his back, crying out in a way that’s downright pitiful. Out of the corner of his vision, Noah spies The Observer wrapping his arms around HABIT’s bicep, clinging, pressing his face against his sleeve in an attempt to muffle his moans.

 

There’s something endlessly gratifying to Noah about subjugating the loathe of his life. It’s hard not to enjoy the act of bringing your tormentor to his knees, making him submit, controlling his pleasure-- and for a short moment, his brain. It gets Noah feeling smug, gets him tipsy on the power of it. He loses himself in the feeling of power he has over the demon-- until he feels something blunt press against his fingers.

 

Horrified, he jolts like he’s been shocked, quickly removing his fingers and pulling his head back. From inside The (still panting, still groaning) Observer emerges a tentacle: long, thick, onyx black. It writhes, slick and shiny, curling in on itself and disgusting Noah with its obscene squelching. The Observer laughs breathlessly in response as Noah stares.

 

He doesn’t have much time to admire the nasty movements and sick sounds of the appendage, however, as it stiffens when he reaches out to touch it. And before he can even blink, The Observer’s strong hands are in his hair again, forcing him down and shoving the tentacle into his face. Noah thrashes, tries to pull away; he slaps and punches at The Observer’s legs, claws the sheets, but it does nothing-- those hands hold him fast.

 

He panics; he swears he’s suffocating. He’s on the verge of tears, when a sharp voice cuts into him. “Oh, _stop_ ,” HABIT scolds. “Stop that before you pass out.”

 

It takes a few more deep breaths before he realizes that-- _oh yeah_ , he is, in fact, breathing. Good fucking job, survival instincts. The tentacle is heavy on his tongue, and it strains his jaw, but it isn’t choking him, instead sitting neatly near the back of his throat. Noah, still teary, looks up at The Observer-- his half-lidded eyes denote some semblance of pleasure, but it’s easy to tell that Noah’s time holding the reins is over. He’s back to being the pawn.

 

“Relax,” The Observer reassures. “It’s finally time.”

 

Noah isn’t sure what he means, until he feels the drop of something solid into his stomach. It’s dense, as though he’s swallowed a marble. He feels another slide down the back of his tongue, then another, and another. Seven in and he realizes that The Observer is laying eggs in him. The realization sends his heart into a frenzy again, but he manages to keep his head cool. He isn’t hurting, he’s fine, he's fine. No sense in losing his shit over a few dozen spawn in his belly, right?

 

But _fuck him_ , does it drag out. He swears he stays like that for an hour, feeling the eggs accumulate one-by-one into his gut. His jaw aches from the strain, his back and shoulders ache from the position, his brain aches from the headache that his mental flip-flopping has brought on. And his ass aches, from the pain of having these two around.

 

But worst of all is his stomach, which passes ‘full’ in no time. He’s bloating, eggs are filling him up, pressing against the lining of his stomach walls and stretching his gut thin. Noah loses count quickly, but he wouldn’t doubt that he’s swallowed one-- no, two hundred eggs before the hands relinquish him, and the tentacle slides lazily from between his lips.

 

He sits back slowly, queasy, scared he’ll toss his cookies (or, rather, his eggs) if he moves too quick. He swallows the bile that raises in his throat and asks, meekly, “Are we done? Are we finally fucking done?”

 

“No way, sport!” HABIT chimes in. Noah already wishes they could go back to when HABIT kept his damn mouth shut. It had been the most peaceful hour of his life. “It’s Daddy’s turn now.”

 

HABIT jumps off of the bed, squaring himself and beckoning Noah over. “C’mon, get up. We don’t got all fucking day, kiddo.”

 

To say Noah moves lethargically in response would be an understatement; at this point, he could lose a foot race to a fossilized mosquito. But he slides off of the bed eventually, his shaky legs barely carrying him.

 

“Noah Maxwell, you are the saddest thing I have ever seen in my life.” HABIT says with a shake of his head. “And I have to look at Evan in the mirror every morning.”

 

He takes Noah by the shoulders, pushing him down to his knees. “Listen, man, I’ll make this easy on ya. You just stay there and look pretty, I’ll do the rest, capisce?”

 

Noah, tired and dejected, simply sighs.

 

“Great!” HABIT, who had managed to stay dressed throughout this entire encounter, finally shucks off that stupid apron. He drops his pants with all the finesse of a headless chicken and fishes out his cock with an equal amount of grace. Noah, confused, (He’s already stuffed full of the eggs, so what’s the point of this?) opens his mouth for it anyway.

 

“Good boy,” HABIT says, venomously condescending. He rubs his dick on Noah’s face brusquely, reveling in the way Noah cringes, snarls, recoils. He’s doing it just to be an ass, Noah realizes-- just to be HABIT. There’s no way in hell Noah’s untrimmed hermit-beard can feel good on a dude’s junk.

 

Noah manages to drum up a little force in his voice. “Dude, cut it out! If you want me to suck your dick, just let me do it already!”

 

“Well, if you insist.” HABIT hums, almost as if the outburst is an offer from the goodness of Noah’s heart. He pops open Noah’s pretty little mouth and slides the man onto his dick like a cocksleeve. He pushes back, back until the head of his dick is saying hello to Noah’s esophagus, and Noah himself has a noseful of hair.

 

Noah gags around HABIT’s dick, feeling his guts churn. His throat dilates, sour bile rising like hot air... and HABIT pulls out just enough to let poor Noah breathe. His lungs are filled, his vomit is swallowed, and HABIT’s dick is thrust back into him.

 

He’s back to choking, swallowing hard around the disgusting hunk of meat in his gob. He waits for HABIT to withdraw again, but he doesn’t, and Noah knows he’s fucked. Before long his lungs are burning, his face is flushing, darkness is pricking the edges of his vision. He scrambles for purchase, for a way to push himself off, to get air, _anything_ \-- but HABIT’s got him trapped, and for the umpteenth time that night, these supernatural fuckers overpower him.

 

He gags but he doesn’t throw up. He wishes he would-- maybe it would disgust HABIT enough to let him go, or at the very least, he could choke on it faster, die on it faster. He knew that’s what he was going to do: die here. This whole egg bit had been a stupid lie-- a fucking ruse to kill him in the most humiliating way possible. He was going to be die in the flower of his youth, suffocating to death on HABIT’s grimy dick.

 

“Go easy on him, dear.” The Observer’s voice rings like a light through the darkness. “Humans need to breathe.”

 

“What, all the time?” HABIT complains, and his dick is unceremoniously gone from Noah’s fucking trachea. Noah doubles over, clutching his stomach, breathing so hard he might as well be eating the air. He swore he saw it, saw Death coming for him, saw the light at the end of the tunnel, saw his really boring life flashing before his eyes.

 

“C’mon, buddy, don’t be so dramatic!” HABIT says as he tugs Noah up by the hair. “You act like you’ve never been choked out before! You gotta take one for the team! After all, my kids aren’t gonna fertilize themselves!”

 

That explains some things...kinda? But Noah is still angry and still trying to piece his brain together after having it nearly demolished by dick. He holds his tongue, and with bitterness notes that he's become a submissive little toy.

 

“Don’t make that face, Noah. What, do your knees hurt? You want back on the bed?” Without waiting for a response, HABIT scoops him up, tossing him back onto the mattress. He’s on top of Noah in an instant, straddling his chest and glowering down at him. He uses great fistfuls of Noah’s hair to pin him down and leans over him, shoving his dick back into Noah’s mouth.

 

He moves this time, thrusting down, pounding Noah into the bed. HABIT groans out guttural noises, foreign, inhuman. Noah can only curl his digits into HABIT’s flesh and focus on getting any air he can. It’s rough, and HABIT’s body is dense and heavy on him, but he can manage this.

 

“Finally found a good use for that mouth of yours, huh?” HABIT murmurs between thrusts. Noah tries to ignore that fact, tries to ignore any mouth-related insults from the bastard with the biggest motormouth in two worlds. He can’t ignore either; he's beyond pissed now. To himself, Noah vows that later, when the future meets the present and he ascends to godhood, that he would dole out merciless revenge just for this. It would be the fucking cherry on top of the shit sundae he would make these bastards eat.

 

While Noah contemplated his comeuppance, HABIT focused on his come uppance. Indeed, he must have the stamina of an old mutt, because in no time at all he's breathing hard, voice straining like he’s going to blow his load any second. He chokes out a moan and pistons his hips faster, humping Noah’s face like a teenage boy humps a pillow. He calls out for his love, his mate, and The Observer is at his side in an instant, sliding his tongue into HABIT’s mouth. They kiss loud, open-mouth kisses, sounding and acting too much like animals.

 

“Babe,” HABIT’s voice warbles, and it’s easy to tell what’s coming. “Babe-”

 

The Observer showers him with affection, pressing his lips onto every spare inch of flesh, pausing only to command him. “Do it, then. Give me the offspring I was promised.”

 

A handful of haphazard thrusts and HABIT stills, moaning like some wounded creature. A hot, bitter mess fills Noah’s mouth and he gags, quickly learning how hard it is to spit up something when your mouth is preoccupied with man-meat.

 

“Swallow it,” HABIT manages, sounding much akin to a sixty-year-old chain smoker. He repeats, “Swallow it,” and Noah does his best to listen, despite how nasty it is. ( _Fuck, dude_ , he thinks. _If you’re gonna have control over Evan’s body, make him eat some asparagus or some shit!_ ) When HABIT is satisfied, he flops onto the bed next to Noah, exhaling loudly and patting his head.

 

Noah settles his hands on his stomach, which didn’t look all that different, despite now being the incubator for a cosmic fuckton of children.

 

“Good job, kiddo. Ya did great!” HABIT slaps him on the shoulder. “You definitely earned five.”

 

Noah props himself up on his arm. “Five… Like, a break? You don’t mean there’s _more_ , do you?”

 

HABIT frowns. “Well yeah. You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

 

“Yeah, HABIT, I kinda fucking did!”

 

“Oh, well, pardon me, princess, no need to fuckin’ shout.” He rolls his eyes, twisting up his face mockingly. “Now what, you’re gonna make me out to be the bad guy again, aren'tcha? That's so like you.”

 

He pins Noah  beneath him again, slapping his hands down on both sides of his head. He looks Noah in the eye and he smiles, slow, toothy, deliberate.

 

\--

 

Noah spends the better part of the day getting his face fucked. The Observer and HABIT pass him back and forth like a toy, stuffing him, filling him until the skin of his stomach threatens to split. It isn’t until Noah begins spitting eggs back up that they stop. They slip the discarded eggs back into his mouth, forcing him to swallow and silently hoping the brief exposure wouldn't stunt them. Then they gently wipe away the sweat and the evidence of child-making that covers his body.

 

They lay him down on his pillows gingerly, covering his bruised, quivering body. And then the pair settle in close to Noah, putting their hands on him, drawing him near. They keep him warm for the rest of the night with their bodies, protecting their brood from any imaginary threat that might try to sneak in.


	2. Love Grows (Where My Everyman Goes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, everyone. Chapter two is finally here! I'm sorry for the delay. I really hope you like it!
> 
> I think the next chapter will be the last one. Hopefully it won't take me another, what, 14 months or so? to get the next one out! <:P
> 
>  
> 
> TW for discussions of abuse and sexual assault. Also, emeto and some gross body-horror type shenanigans.

When Noah comes to, it’s already evening. The sun is dipping below the horizon and the clock in his room reads 5:14. He takes a deep breath, inhaling until his stomach hurts and then exhaling with a scream. He drags his hands down his face, pissed at himself for having spent the whole night getting  _ fucked _ and the whole day  _ fucking _ up his sleep schedule. Fan- _ fucking _ -tastic.

 

With a bit of effort, he props himself up on his elbows, sitting up. The regret is instant-- he falls back down, crying out as a sharp pain plows him like a train without brakes. He hisses through his teeth, grasping his gut. He rubs the skin, kneading into it, trying to focus on anything but the pain making his entire torso hurt.

 

“Stop,  _ stop! _ ” he groans, half-pleading and half-threatening. He gets one big  _ screw you _ in response, punctuated by an ache in his lungs that feels distinctly like a puncture. His heart skips a beat as he gasps; in the moment he feels weightless, hollow. His guts and bones float off, leaving him in a cold-sweating shell.

 

Blood rushes through his body again, quickly accompanied by a bastard of a cramp that stiffens his body and makes him shriek. It rolls over him like a lazy tide, taking its sweet fucking time, making sure he’s as miserable as possible.

 

For the umpteenth time in the past two days, he swears he’s dying. For real this time, he’s going to die. This is his pathetic, miserable end. In a few days his parents will call, wondering if he’s all right. When they receive no answer, they’ll come by, opening up the house with the spare key they own. They’ll scour the place, calling  _ “Noah! Noah! Are you okay?” _ and they’ll find him, curled up on his bed, dead. The image of a lowly, pitiful cockroach will rise up in their brains and they’ll cry before they even call an ambulance.

 

Oh hell, what then? They’ll take him to the morgue to see what could have possibly killed such a young (depressed, suicidal, alcoholic) man, and when they split his belly? Eggs. There’s gonna be fucking eggs everywhere. He’s gonna burst like a balloon full of those shitty water orbs and soak the pathologist in who-knows-what. Maybe acid. Maybe acid is eating him alive.

 

He isn’t even dead yet, but he’s already ashamed of the ugly corpse he’ll leave.

 

His demise imminent, he contemplates leaving a note to his family, explaining everything in the most basic terms possible. He’ll leave a link to his YouTube channel, tell them about the journals and about Mary and Kevin and Milo and the fuckers that did this to him.

 

But the thought of even trying to get up-- of expending the effort to write or type-- somehow makes his body feel even worse. Every inch of him protests the idea, so he waits, waits and waits some more, waiting until his aching body shuts itself down.

 

It doesn’t. The cramps and aches subside, his heart quiets down. He breathes like a normal human again. He doesn’t count the minutes it lasts, but the fact that the setting sun has completely disappeared by the time it’s over is a good indication of lost time. 

 

He sighs, tired despite just waking up.

 

He stares at his door, hand rubbing lazy circles over his abdomen. He’s thirsty and he needs to piss, but risking a repeat ordeal cements him in place.

 

Another ten minutes pass-- maybe more-- before the ache in his bladder becomes overwhelming and he decides to risk standing again. He shifts gently towards the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and lowering them so slowly that they begin to burn from the strain. He props himself up on an elbow once again, freezes, waits for the pain. It doesn’t come and he mentally thanks G-d.

 

It was so far, so good. But the hurdle of actually standing still loomed before him, threatening to undo his meager progress. He stares down at his belly, which he notes is rounder than it had been a mere day ago, albeit minutely. He sighs down at it, giving it a little pat.

 

“Please, please let me fucking get up,” he mumbles to whatever’s inside of him, trying not to sound too desperate. He knows it’s pointless--it’s not as though the cluster could actually hear him (or had even developed ears capable of hearing)-- but he was willing to try just about anything that might help. “I’m letting you live inside me for free! The least you could do is not kill me when I want to move around!”

 

Naturally, there’s no response. 

 

He can’t wait any longer. He screws up his eyes. He takes a breath, holds it and stands quickly. His whole body is cringing, tense, waiting for a crushing tide of pain that never arrives.

 

\---

 

After Noah’s relieved himself and washed his hands, he shuffles out to the kitchen, each step wobbly and cautious. He can’t shake the creeping phantom of pain that nags at the back of his mind, threatening to kick his spinal cord at any moment. It makes him consider every movement (don’t walk too quickly, don’t bend over too much, don’t jerk your body). The journey to his fridge is drawn out and frustrating; were it not for his shaking hands and pounding head, he would have forgone the whole damn thing.

 

He fishes out a can of beer. The cool aluminum soothes his burning skin and the crack of the tab is nearly enough to send his headache away. He knocks it back and sighs with relief. He tosses the can in with the recycling and leans over the counter. 

 

In an attempt to forget what had transpired the previous day, he contemplates how he should spend the rest of the night. He could veg out in front of the television or mindlessly browse Twitter, but fuck him if he didn’t have other things to do-- he certainly wasn’t lacking in the homework department. He had enough class reading to more than fill up a boring night.

 

Speaking of reading, there was also Milo’s journal. That remained to be, in more ways than one, dissected. There was so much Milo knew, so much Noah could absorb from his writings. Even if it couldn’t help him chase away the supernatural scumbags, Noah could still learn the the deepest thoughts of his best friend and--

 

Warmth rushes up his throat. Not content in being forgotten, the little cluster of miracles occupying Noah’s stomach remind him that, indeed, his stomach is occupied and that there is no room for caustic, expanding liquids in their home. So, before Noah even has a chance to think, alcohol is knocking at the back of his teeth. He clamors for the sink, throwing up the beer/stomach acid combo, the bitterness of which threatens to dissolve his tongue. 

 

It’s a nasty, frothy concoction, thin and fizzy like baking soda mixed with vinegar. His eyes water and carbonation bubbles in his nostrils, running down his face in pale amber lines.

 

With a groan he stares blankly at the mess he’s left in the sink, clutching his aching throat. He rasps softly for a moment, catching his breath before spitting out the last of the acid in his mouth.

 

“What the fuck?” When he’s steady he fishes the can from the bin, checking the BEST BY date; it would be just his luck to wind up drinking something expired. But no, the label gives him several more weeks of leeway, which only serves to stoke his frustrations.

 

He sticks his head back into the fridge, cradling his cramping stomach. Thankfully he remembered to get milk, because the taste in his mouth was downright horrific. It goes down so nicely, washing away the sour acidity. 

 

The feeling of relief is short-lived, as his stomach flips. He clasps his hands over his mouth in a futile attempt to keep what’s inside, inside.

 

The worst part about living alone is that there’s no one else to mop up after you.

 

\--

 

After some additional, literally gut-wrenching trial-and-error, Noah finds that the only thing that won’t set off his little bundle of joy is water. Not only does it actually stay down but, dare he say, they seem to like it. After a few days he doesn’t cramp anymore; he feels energized, his skin is a healthier color and the bags under his eyes have lightened. 

 

It’s an odd experience overall, feeling this good. Given his prior water-drinking track record, he’s not sure if this actually has anything to do with the supernatural things inside of him, or if hydration actually lives up to the hype.

 

\--

 

Despite how good he had begun to feel, one morning he awakens and is unable to leave his bed. He has a nagging urge to spring out of bed, finish his laundry, cook, touch on his homework, go for a walk, get groceries, go on a date, climb a mountain, learn a new language-- something!-- but his arms and legs don’t work. He’s restless and drained at the same time.

 

He resolves not to panic. All he’s done in the past six years is panic. He’s sick of it. He takes deep breaths (which is surprisingly hard to do) and tries not to think about how much he has to piss (which is even harder still). He’s sure this is just another side effect of his condition, and just like all the others, it too will pass. So he closes his eyes and thinks.

 

As was the natural course for Noah, his restless mind turns to Milo. He wonders if Milo is upset with him-- for taking so long, for being so scared and useless. Would Milo be angry at him for not giving himself over to Firebrand-- “ascending”-- fast enough and freeing the both of them? It’s a familiar train of thought for him and he hates it. Furrowing his brow, he tries to push the image of Milo-- of the perpetually weepy Scars-- from his brain.

 

His mind wanders to Sarah (dangerous), Kat (even more dangerous). Red-hot anger bubbles up in him. 

 

Ed, Jeff, Kevin, Evan, Lee, Stan. His breathing gets sharp.  

 

Vinny. He wishes he could rake his nails down his face, to let the angry red lines bleed out some of his frustration and hatred. 

 

But he can’t move, can’t pound the bed or pace the floor. He has no way to pull his thoughts away from the images of bodies, from the blips of taped suffering he so voyeuristically devoured, just another sadist behind the comfort of a screen. 

 

Jeff’s hand on him on the bridge-- it was so warm, so alive, despite how fucking dead he was.

 

And the cherry on top of the shit sundae? His stomach begins to churn.

 

He grinds his teeth and throws his head back, a scream forming in his head, in his vocal cords, behind his eyes.

 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” he bellows. He draws it out for as long as his compressed lungs will let him. “Fuck-- fuck! Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck! Fuck! _ What the fuck! What the  _ fuck! _ Fuck this! Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” He wheezes. “Fucker! Mother fu-- mother fucker! Son of a fuck! You’re all fuckers! You’re all dirty fu-”

 

“ _ Stop _ .”

 

Noah’s chain of expletives catches in his throat. He manages to tilt his head down and through the blur of his anger he spots the petite form of the Observer sitting at the foot of his bed. He’s smiling, despite the jagged aggression in his voice. Perhaps grinning like a moron was part of his job description?

 

“You’re so annoying, Noah.” he says. “Why are you crying?”

 

“I wasn’t  _ crying _ , asshole. I was shouting. Because I’m pissed. Because I can’t  _ move! _ ”

 

The Observer clicks his tongue at him, shaking his head just so. “And why do you think that is?”

 

“I don’t know! If I did, don’t you think I would have fixed it by now, asshole?!”

 

The Observer pulls Kevin’s form onto the bed. He arches his back up high, black cat, and slithers his way up the bed. His spindly limbs jerk in odd, impractical ways as he crawls up Noah’s body, hovering, releasing an improbable heat. It’s an uncanny little dance, most likely meant to upset or disturb Noah further, but he can’t bring himself to be unsettled by it. Once your stalker has literally laid his eggs inside of you, it’s hard to be scared when he attempts anything less. 

 

The Observer hangs above him, their faces mere inches apart. If Noah’s nonchalance wounded his ego, the Observer doesn’t show it. “How can the vessel of a god be so fucking stupid?” He gently raps his knuckles against Noah’s forehead. “Mayhaps you make such a good vessel  _ because _ your skull is so empty?”

 

Noah attempts to jerk his head away from the contact, but the sudden movement sends a sharp soreness up his body, making his breath hitch. He draws his lips tight, smothering a helpless groan. 

 

The Observer grasps Noah’s face in the crux of his thumb and pointer finger. “Noah, riddle me this: How long has it been since my puppy and I put our children in your belly?”

 

Something about calling HABIT a “puppy” makes Noah shiver. “Shit, a week or so, I guess.”

 

“Mhmm. I’d say it’s been that long. And what’s something you’ve forgotten to do in that week?”

 

Was that a trick question? Was there some sort of child-friendly blood ritual he was supposed to perform? If there were special steps he had to take to keep the little brats from making his body lock up, they could have left him a fucking memo!

 

The Observer speaks through Noah’s silent confusion. “Come on, Noah, it’s not hard. It’s something humans have to do every day.”

 

He has to actually ponder it. The week had been a blur of new sensations, mixed bodily reactions, and a roller coaster of emotions. With the way the days overlapped, it was hard for him to remember any specifics of his routine. “Uhh… shit?”

 

“ _ Eat _ , Noah! You have to  _ eat! _ ”

 

Noah’s eyebrows knit together as he scours his memory of the past few days. Surely he’d eaten, right? He wasn’t that much of a fucking moron, was he? 

 

But no matter how much he replays the days in his mind, working the memories over like clay to be softened, he can’t recall having eaten a single thing. And now that he thought about it, he hadn’t had any inclination to eat, either-- his appetite had been completely void.

 

With that _ revelation _ , it made sense that his body had shut down, and it makes him feel like an asshole-- doubly so because it took The Damn Observer for him to get a fucking clue about his own biological functions.

 

Though his face is painted up in something he is sure betrays his resolve, he refuses to give this demon even one more ounce of satisfaction. “Well, what good would that do, anyway? I’d just throw it all back up!”

 

The Observer considers this, briefly. However, as was always the case, his knowledge was absolute; he scolds Noah’s impudence with a pat to each cheek, just sharp enough to sting. “I won’t let you starve yourself, Noah. You can make all the excuses you like, but I know your game. You won’t flush my children out by making your body uninhabitable. They are Simulium in nature, they will persist. The real question is whether or not  _ you _ will.”

 

“I have to, dumbass, so stop fucking monologuing at me and tell me how to fix my body!”

 

The Observer laughs! and he crushes their mouths together.

 

Noah had thought all this kissing nonsense was done; it was too personal, too intimate, too weird for what their relationship was. He hates it, even more so when he feels that hot tongue pressing at his lips.

 

With no lack of displeasure, Noah lets it breech him. Quickly, he feels something odd in his mouth-- thick and heavy, with a texture much akin to homemade jam. He tries to push on the Observer, bang his fists on the creature’s bony shoulders, but his useless body doesn’t do shit for him.

 

Whatever the strange concoction is, it quickly fills Noah’s mouth and he has to swallow, or choke.

 

It goes down surprisingly easy. It slides down his throat and settles in his belly, spreading an odd, soothing warmth. It gives Noah a sort of buzz, one that hazes his vision just slightly; he’s unsure if it’s because of some chemical in it or if it’s an honest result of his hunger being sated.

 

Regardless, it’s a rather nice feeling, one he could see himself becoming accustomed to. He’s enjoying the high so much that he barely even notices when the Observer slips out of his mouth.

 

“There we go, you stupid little man.” The Observer runs his fingers intimately through Noah’s hair. “That should keep you alive for now.”

 

The Observer slides off of Noah’s body and onto the floor. Before he departs he pauses to rest his hand on Noah’s mostly-flat abdomen. He rubs slow, gentle circles into his skin and he sighs a content little sigh. Oh, he remarks, how he wishes he could stay, but there was work to be done, promises to be kept. 

 

So he makes his exit, with some offhand remark about coming to feed him again; as soon as he crosses the threshold of Noah’s room, the world becomes quiet again.

 

Noah remains, body still stiff, for a few minutes after. He hasn’t vomited the shit back up, and he hasn’t started cramping, which are good signs-- but whatever The Observer gave him left a disgusting aftertaste in his mouth, and the inability to rinse it out is frustrating.

 

He supposes he should be thankful-- first and foremost because something about these eggs kept him from starving to death even after a week, and secondly that the Observer could satisfy him with something that didn’t make his stomach protest-- but he quickly pushes those feelings down. If it wasn’t for the Observer, he wouldn’t have been put through this trouble in the first place.

 

Noah contemplates the endless cycle of frustration that the Observer has contained him in, up until the warmth in his belly spreads over his body and the heavy feeling in his limbs finally dissipates.

 

He sits at the edge of his bed, cradling his head in one hand, his belly in the other.

 

\---

 

They take turns feeding him. Every two or three days, HABIT or the Observer will appear in his home without notice, and they’ll lock in on him. They’ll pin him to the wall, or the bed, or the couch, French kiss/feed him and then fuck off. 

 

HABIT is always more aggressive about it-- Then again, when isn’t he?-- grabbing at any part of Noah that isn’t his stomach and sinking his nails in, or grazing his throat with teeth too sharp for Evan’s body. Like the fucking freak he is, HABIT revels in the way Noah scowls or spits at him when he’s too rough. On more than one occasion, Noah needs to remind him of who would  _ actually _ get hurt if he’s handled too roughly, and HABIT would relent with his tail between his legs.

 

It continues this way for the better part of a month. Noah settles into a routine-- he knows what days they’ll appear (Monday, Wednesday, Friday), what  _ times _ of the day they’ll appear (noon; any time after six PM), where they’ll appear from (the front door; the bathroom), how they’ll touch him (tenderly; sweetly; gingerly-- he’s porcelain), how long they’ll stay (as little as possible) and how he’ll feel when they go (the same way one does after getting blood drawn). It becomes another part of life’s background noise-- the same way studying or changing clothing does.

 

But those rascals-- as soon as he’s in time with their steps, they change up the tempo.

 

One day, no one shows up. He waits the entire day, half-flinching constantly as he always did on their days to visit. Nothing. He goes to sleep, trying not to worry. But what if he’s been cut off? What happens then-- does he simply die?

 

He forces himself to take deep breaths before he gives himself a panic attack. In through his nose, out through his mouth; they were most likely preoccupied. In, out; one extra day wouldn’t kill him. In, out; if they forget him he’ll make them remember. In, out; if they ignore him he’ll make them turn their eyes.

 

Eyes… eyes. They have eyes everywhere. They couldn’t forget because at least one of them was always watching him. So why hadn’t they come? He presses his nails into his forehead, trying to focus on his breathing. This is a test, has to be. They made him dependent and they’re taking what he needs just so they can see him beg. But fuck that! He wouldn’t! He couldn’t! He-

 

He hears the fridge door slam. He’s on his feet in a second, stomach cramps be damned.

 

He runs down the hallway towards the kitchen, sliding inside. It’s rather comedic, but he’s too pissed to care. “HABIT you got a lotta fucking nerve to show your fa-”

 

Not HABIT, but Vincent Everyman is there to greet him. Vinny, clutching a jar of jam in his hand, blinks at Noah slowly.

 

“HABIT’s, umm… HABIT’s not here.” Vinny says.

 

Noah rights himself, standing up tall in an attempt to look cool and collected. In return, the little brats reward him with a swift kick in the gut. He gasps, gripping the counter as he doubles over.

 

Vinny rushes to his side, resting his hand on Noah’s back.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Noah spits out, before Vinny can even get a word in. “They’re just--”

 

He pauses to breathe and correct himself. “I mean,  _ I’m _ just sick. I haven’t felt so great lately.”

 

“You don’t have to hide anything, Noah.” Vinny reassures him as he helps Noah to the table. “HABIT told me that you’re, umm, pregnant-- I guess. For lack of a better word.”

 

“Is that  _ all _ he told you?”

 

Vinny sucks in air through his teeth uncomfortably. “No, I wish it was. He-- he didn’t spare me any of the gory details.”

 

“Damn, Vinny. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.  _ I’m _ sorry--  you’re the one who went through it.”

 

Noah shrugs. The event itself had just been another layer on his eternally-stacking trauma cake. It was horrifying, it had made him feel disgusting in his own skin, but, sadly, it wasn’t really too different from what he’d felt before. The only difference this time is he couldn’t cope in his usual ways.

 

“I’ll be okay,” Noah says. They both know it’s a lie; “Okay” was impossible for them. But, fuck, what good did it do to unload more baggage onto Vinny?

 

Vinny simply nods. “I was gonna make something to eat. Did you want anything?”

 

“Believe me, man, I’d love some food, but I don’t think you have anything I can eat.”

 

Vinny smiles, and the glint of mischief in his eye sends Noah’s heart racing for some reason. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a shaker bottle, filled to the brim with that nasty/tasty-looking black sludge.

 

“What the fuck? Where’d you get that from?” 

 

“Where do you think?”

 

“Fair enough.” Noah’s stomach growls, but he resists the urge to leap over the table and just chug that shit straight from the bottle. “You know where that shit comes from, right?”

 

“I do not, and I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell me.”

 

And he doesn’t. Instead, Noah just sits back while Vinny scoops out a couple fat tablespoons of the stuff and plops it into a saucepan. While it’s heating, he whips up some eggs and toast for himself.

 

The house is silent, save for the sizzling of food and Vinny’s gentle humming. As quiet as it is, it’s still more sound than Noah’s normally accustomed to. He finds himself liking it, enjoying the presence of someone who wasn’t just interested in what his skin could do for them.

 

Vinny looks so natural behind the stove, too, and that certainly doesn’t hurt.

 

Nothing at all hurts, until Vinny swirls the saucepan and, when a touch of black sludge slips out into the flame, it summons a damn-near tower of fire.

 

\--

 

It took several minutes of freaking out and smothering the fire with salt, but they manage to avoid burning the house down. With the lovely scent of burnt demon spit in the air, the two sit down to eat. Noah sips at his “soup” and he can feel his body rejoice, nourished once more in a cluster-acceptable way.

 

When he’s full, and his brain can focus on something besides food, a thought occurs to him.

 

“Vinny… what’re you  _ doing _ here?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Vinny mutters around the food in his mouth. “HABIT dumped me here. He said it’d be easier to babysit both of us if we’re in one place.”

 

“Well, shit. On top of everything else, the bastard’s  _ lazy _ .”

 

Vinny rolls his eyes. “You have no idea. Try having him as a roommate. Cleaning up after him makes me wish he’d just kill me instead.”

 

“I’m glad he hasn’t,” Noah says. “I’m glad you’re alive and, umm-- here.”

 

Vinny smiles a little at that and attempts to hide it by focusing on pushing eggs around his plate. “Thanks. You probably get pretty lonely here, huh?”

 

“Yeah, it sucks. Even before the, ya know-- the egg thing, I didn’t go out much. I never felt like I could with the whole--”

 

“The boardwalk bullshit?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“I try to keep up with that stuff,” Vinny says. His tone is dour, almost self-flagellating. “It’s been easier lately since I actually have wifi now and then, but for a long time I was completely cut off from what was happening to everyone.”

 

“I appreciate it, and I’m sure everyone else does, too.” Noah realizes he’s made another conversation awkward and he fucking hates it. He spies Vinny’s hand is on the table-- he wants to take it, squeeze it, reassure him. But he can’t-- he doesn’t wanna make things worse.

 

He tries to change the subject. “Must be nice to get out of your house though, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Vinny replies with a snort. “Your place is bigger than ours, which is nice. I can’t stand this goddamn Florida heat though. I’ve only been here like an hour and even with the A/C on I feel like I’m dying.”

 

“Welcome to Florida, fam!”

 

\--

 

It’s weird, cohabitating. Noah’s never really had a roommate before, and he’s especially never had one just dropped into his lap. But the company is more than welcome, especially because of who it is.

 

Vinny seems to be like a capybara, or a cleaner shrimp, or whatever-- he’s good at gauging the attitudes and needs of others, and acting accordingly. Maybe he became that way after years of trying to placate a literal mass murderer who could skin him at any second, but who knows-- maybe he was always like this. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s kind and understanding.

 

Noah needs kind and understanding.

 

Especially as the weeks pass and the eggs inside him grow bigger and bigger, making it harder and harder for him to move. Within a month of the conception, Noah’s sad, flat stomach has distended an inch. Not only does it restrict any sort of physical movement, with the promise of awful cramps should he disobey, but it makes his organs feel constantly alight. 

 

He remembers a time back in high school, where, for a health class project, he ate nothing but fast food hamburgers and cheap tacos for a week straight, just to study its effects on the human body. His organs had been on fire by the end of the week, and it had taken a full day on the can just to get his guts to stop screaming bloody murder at him. He also recalls a time a few years ago, when he had gone on his first long drinking bender. After a while, every shot he used to cope felt like an actual shot to his kidneys and his liver. 

 

This was worse than both of those events, but unlike back then, he couldn’t vacate his misery in the bathroom. No, as much as he’d tried, he wouldn’t be rid of them so easily.

 

So, in perpetual frustration, he resigns himself to his bed. 

 

He occupies most of his time by sleeping. He’d heard it mentioned before that being pregnant makes one tired, but never in his life did could he imagine just how exhausting fostering life could be. Even simple tasks like eating and getting up to take a piss could, on the bad days, drive him straight beneath the sheets. When he wasn’t sleeping fourteen hours a day, his time in bed was mostly spent reading. Textbooks and Milo’s journal ate up enough of his time and the concepts between them were more than enough to keep him thinking.

 

When he was sick of driving himself crazy with his cousin’s testament, he did what any good Millennial would: fuck around on his phone. He’d had the good sense to make a side-Twitter years ago, one where he could follow the goings-on of his normal friends and his favorite bands without fear of dudes with distortion-boners ruining it.

 

It usually gets boring pretty fast. Once he’s caught up with the latest drama and the newest shitty memes, he’ll idly pretend to be interested in the stupid games on his phone. Then he’ll toss the thing aside and go back to sleep.

 

On the rare occasion he’s feeling up to moving, he’ll bring his books into the living room and settle in on the couch. 

 

Because the living room had also become Vinny’s living space, it was way nicer. It’s tidier, and at the same time more lived in. It actually seems like part of a home, instead of a space occasionally occupied by a paranoid hermit. A duffle bag full of his clothes and belongings sits in the corner; his coat is draped across the back of the armchair. If Noah presses his nose into the pillow on the end of the couch, it smells like him. It’s great.

 

Vinny, who had initially been reserved upon arriving, opens up quickly. Not having to walk on eggshells means he can yell and dance, and sing while he’s washing the dishes. He relays to Noah how much he missed not having to hold his breath around another person, how good it felt to have someone he could be honest with; how nice it was to be able to ask questions without having to question the motives behind the answers. Noah never gives him cryptic half-answers, because Noah is fucking sick of them too.

 

They find good company in each other, providing support and empathy for situations other people could only cook up for horror novels. They laugh at the black comedy of their own lives. They vent; Noah admits that he still mourns his cousin, in his state of painful un-death. Vinny admits that he mourns his best friend, his brother, in his state of painful non-life. Vinny says he is ashamed to mourn Evan, because Evan isn’t even really dead.

 

“But he’s never coming back,” he murmurs, breathlessly, with tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “It’s-- it’s fucking awful but I wish Evan  _ was _ just dead, that way HABIT couldn’t use him. And I know…  _ I know _ that’s what Evan wishes too. But instead he’s just stuck fucking  _ somewhere! _ God knows where! And he probably sees everything that happens. But he can’t do anything to stop it.  _ I _ can’t do anything.”

 

Vinny presses his palms into his eyes and babbles on. Noah puts his arms around him, resisting the urge to lose himself in Vinny’s overwhelming warmth. Every thought he hadn’t said--  _ couldn’t _ have said-- comes pouring out. There’s a desperation to Vinny’s words, as though he might die if they don’t leave his system. So Noah listens, responding only when Vinny gives him time to, and only in the briefest, most affirming words he can.

 

This therapeutic session, in which they take turns crying and being angry and shouting at their cruel respective gods, lasts well into the night, and by the time they head to bed they’re both exhausted. Noah, body pain be damned, considers kneeling in front of the couch to sleep, so that he could be there if Vinny needs him. But, reading him like a book, Vinny shakes his head at him and gently pushes him towards his room.

 

“I’ll be fine.” he assures Noah.

 

“Okay, but if you need anything, just come get me, okay?”

 

Vinny nods. “I will, man. I will.”

 

\--

 

In the night, when Noah is half-asleep, he hears Vinny enter his room. Without a word, he slides into bed beside him. He puts his arms around Noah and pulls him to his body. Even through the haze of his state, Noah can feel Vinny’s belly on his back, feel the soft hair of his beard on the nape of his neck. There’s something so tranquil about Vincent, about them like this. Noah can’t help himself, and he sighs, soft and content.

 

When he does, the arms around him fly off and Vinny hurries off of the bed, leaving the room with the soft  _ click _ of the door. Noah is left cold, confused. Lacking.

 

In the morning, neither of them mention it.

 

\--

 

“Sorry I can’t help.” Noah calls from the couch. He’s idly rubbing his stomach as he watches Vinny sweep in the kitchen.

 

“It's whatever.” Vinny calls back. 

 

Since his arrival, Vinny had been more than pulling the weight of household chores. From cooking to vacuuming to even making Noah’s bed, if there was something domestic to be done, Vinny was on top of it. Noah, for the most part, sat on the side, watching, as if being inattentive would make him appear even lazier in Vinny’s eyes.

 

But Vinny never asks him to help, never makes any sort of passive-aggressive statement when Noah brings up how his condition hinders him. Vinny states that it is, in fact,  _ because _ Noah’s condition makes him so low-maintenance that Vinny never asks him to help. 

 

(While it had been comforting at the time, in retrospect this sounded, albeit unintentionally, rather cruel. If Noah’s condition made him messier, would Vinny have made him clean up after himself? Even if he were in worse pain?)

 

So Noah watches.

 

He watches when Vinny clears out all the bottles of Jack or Smirnoff, as well as any other signs of Noah’s mounting alcoholism. Noah, who had been forced to quit cold turkey, and who very much still craves the relief that comes with his booze, initially protests. 

 

They were expensive, he laments. He’d still need them after these  _ things _ were clean of his system. Vinny hesitates at that-- so used to what would happen if he disobeyed what he was told-- but refuses to give in. Instead, he makes Noah stand by while he dumps the shit down the drain. The display makes Noah’s skin itch and his eyes want to water. Feeling  _ very _ stupid for nearly crying over  _ alcohol _ of all things, he blinks back the tears and lets it happen.

 

There’s a relief to it. He knows there's a good chance he’ll go out and buy more later, but regardless, it’s a weight lifted. As much as his booze cradled him softly, it also loomed over him, choking, overbearing-- another shadow over his life, not at all different from the freaks with shitty faces and shittier codenames. It was something that existed to kill him, but not before it took every last ounce of his will and his dignity first.

 

So he watches.

 

Watches as Vinny brings him his slop on the days he’s too sore to even think of moving from his bed. He watches Vinny laugh, genuinely laugh, at the stupidest bullshit-- from Noah’s own stupid mouth, from the TV-- and his heart sings. He pretends not to notice when Vinny sometimes slides into his bed at night. He never holds Noah as he had before, but he still sleeps close. Noah wonders if Vinny misses that closeness.  _ He  _ misses it.

 

So he watches when Vinny comes to sit by him, and, without prompting, Noah takes his hand.

 

Vinny doesn’t look shocked, so much as he does confused.

 

“Uhh… What’re you doing?”

 

Noah, who already felt quite warm, feels the addition of a white-hot blush creeping up his cheeks. He shrugs. “I dunno, man. Just…”

 

He squeezes Vinny’s hand, hoping he won’t pull away. Vinny doesn’t even try.

 

“I miss touching another person,” Noah admits. “You’re the only real, living human I’ve had any actual contact with for a while.”

 

“I see…” Vinny looks at their hands, intertwining, for a long minute, his eyes squinting, assessing. Whatever he’s thinking, he says none of it, instead opting to simply turn on the television.

 

The two of them watch some mindless “adult” cartoon for a while, quietly. Noah should be enjoying himself, enjoying a harmless silence while he holds hands with his-- what? His friend? Normal dude friendships didn’t involve hand-holding, they both knew that.

 

Anxiety beats at his brain. He wants to ask Vinny if he likes him (“Do you  _ like _ like me?”). The words knock at the back of his teeth like vomit. But--nasty anxiety, nasty self-hatred-- when he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is…

 

“I can help you.”

 

Vinny looks at him slowly-- first with his eyes, then with his turned face. His expression is befuddled, his eyes serious and searching. Noah isn’t sure what Vinny  _ thinks _ he means, so he clears his throat and clarifies.

 

“With the umm, cleaning and stuff.”

 

Vinny’s face softens into something that, honestly, kind of hurts. “Noah, we’ve been over this. You don’t have to-- it’s  _ fine _ .”

 

“I know we have! I know, but…” He bites his lip, trying to think. This wasn’t about cleaning at all-- his piece of shit brain had just reflected his words to something harmless, inoffensive. Not at all about the actual issue at hand.

 

“It’s gotta be a pain in the ass, right? Cleaning up after some fucking adult all time. I mean, it’s not like I’m in a wheelchair or something! Ya know?” Keep digging that hole, Maxwell, he says to himself. Keep digging. 

 

He wonders if Vinny sees the sweat he feels beading all over his body.

 

Vinny turns his body completely towards Noah, and takes his other hand. His brows knit tight, pensive. “Noah, what’s going on? What’s this really about?”

 

Oh fuck! He knows. Vinny’s onto him. Noah’s body is lighting up, hot as hell. Maybe this is his ascension-- any second now he’ll be free of his total fucking embarrassment and achieve godmode! 

 

If only it worked like that.

 

“N-Nothing!” Noah sputters, perspiration suddenly  _ streaming _ down his face. He stands up, wobbly legs barely holding him up. “Listen, l- leh-- let me sh-- show.”

 

He’s sure he has the most idiotic smile painted on his face right now, but he doesn’t have time to care. As soon as he’s on his feet, his body feels weightless and he’s falling backwards. Vinny, who had the good sense to keep his hands locked with Noah’s, prevents him from falling onto the table and slamming his head through the glass.

 

With no small effort, Vinny manages to both keep Noah vertical with one hand and move to pick him up at the same time. He gets his arm under Noah’s body and, with it braced, uses his previously occupied hand to lift up Noah’s legs.

 

Vinny carries Noah’s still smiling self to his bed, laying him down.

 

“Noah, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He presses his hand to Noah’s forehead, cringing at the heat Noah’s body is giving off. “What the fuck happened, man? You were fine this morning, weren’t you? When’d you get sick?”

 

Noah looks at him, eyes half-lidded, nose running. He doesn’t respond.

 

“Come on! You have to work with me. It’s just us!” Vinny sighs, kneading his forehead. His only thought is to try and make sure Noah is comfortable, since he sure as fuck can’t take him to a hospital. So, first and foremost, he yanks Noah’s sweat-drenched shirt off of his body, tossing it into the laundry.

 

Noah laughs, throaty. “Vinny, you ca-n’t. I’m in-- I’m in no c’ndition to-”. And before he can even finish his own thought, Noah’s burst into giggles.

 

Vinny ignores the comment. He finds a towel on the floor, quickly wiping away the perspiration on Noah’s forehead before he runs out and into the bathroom. He scours the medicine cabinet and the cupboards, collecting any kind of NSAIDs he can find.

 

He peeks into each of the bottles and decides upon the pills that look easiest to swallow. Bottle in hand, he dashes to the kitchen, pouring Noah some water from the tap. In his rush to return to Noah-- return to his  _ friend _ \-- the cup slips out of his hand, shattering and dousing his pants in water.

 

“Fuck!” he shouts. “Piece of shit!”

 

Frustrated and paralyzed by the glass at his feet, he looks at the bottle he’s retrieved and, with a grunt, throws it at the wall. “Fucking things probably won’t even work!”

 

“ _ Nope. _ ”

 

Vinny freezes. The voice, high and malicious, drains the fire from his body. He turns his head and spies the Observer in the doorway, waving his fingers at him.

 

“Hello, Vincent.”

 

“Why the fuck are you here?” Vinny asks. None of the venom he had intended to hurdle was present, and that only serves to piss him off further.

 

“You should be happy to see me, Vincent.” The Observer smiles, turning on the balls of Kevin’s feet and wistfully gliding towards Noah’s room.

 

“Hey!” Vinny calls after him. “Hey-- hey, wait! Leave him alone!”

 

Vinny leaps over the glass and, by some miracle, avoids embedding any in his feet. He races back into the bedroom, to find the Observer sitting on the bed, Noah’s head on his lap. He’s stroking Noah’s hair, occasionally pausing to wipe the sweat off on his shirt.

 

“You pathetic creature,” the Observer coos. “You’re still playing this game? Trying to sweat my children out? How sad.”

 

“If you hurt him…” Vinny threatens through gritted teeth. For all the fear he hopes to strike in the Observer, he can’t bring himself to move in past the threshold.

 

“You’ll do what, exactly?” the Observer laughs. “You can’t even deal with the puppy, how do you expect to kill me, Vincent?”

 

Something about HABIT being called a “puppy” sends a shiver up Vinny’s spine.

 

Vinny takes a deep, steadying breath. “ _ Please _ don’t hurt him,” he tries instead. Maybe he could kiss up to this bastard like he kissed up to HABIT. He’s been licking boots for years now, a little more for Noah’s sake wouldn’t hurt him.

 

The Observer snorts at him. “Fuck, you’re so stupid. Both of you are so stupid, it’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.”

 

The Observer’s slender, dainty fingers ghost down Noah’s shining body, resting on his swollen abdomen. He kneads at the skin there and Noah yelps, his body jumping up. He exhales a pained moan, eyelids fluttering. Vinny clutches his fists tight, barely containing the urge to run to Noah’s side.

 

“My children are killing him, you see.” The Observer says matter-of-factly, as though he were simply stating the weather conditions outside. “They’re growing too fast and his body can’t adjust, so his organs are at their absolute limit. His body’s worked itself up because it has no other idea what to do.”

 

Vinny pales. “Is he going to die?”

 

“All humans die, Vincent. It’s your biggest flaw.”

 

“Don’t  _ fuck _ with me! Is he going to  _ die _ ?”

 

“Calm down.” The Observer frowns at him. “No need to get so  _ huffy _ . He’ll be fine, for now. In a few days, the children will descend and his body won’t be so taxed. Until then, he’ll stay feverish and you’ll have to take care of him.”

 

That pouty little frown is quickly replaced by an impish smile. “Oh, but I’m sure you were already fully prepared to do that, weren’t you, Vincent? You’re-”

 

“Stop fucking calling me Vincent. You sound like an asshole.”

 

A beat. “...You’re ready and eager to play the doting husband, aren’t you? Humans get attached too easily. If you knew what was in store for him, you wouldn’t…” The Observer bites his thumb nail, smile widening until it threatened to split his cheeks.

 

He sets Noah’s head down on the pillow gently, chuckling to himself. He brushes past Vincent, thumping a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Just don’t take anything he says seriously. The strain’s made him delusional for a while now, and he’ll continue to be delusional, long after you’re gone.”

 

\--

 

The Observer is an asshole, just like HABIT is. Yeah, sure, they’re assholes in different ways-- HABIT is a chaotic evil, while the Observer is more like a lawful evil, Vinny supposes-- but they’re both still assholes all the same.

 

This is just one of the many astute observations that Vinny tosses around in his head in the days following the Observer’s visit. With Noah out for the count, he’s essentially all alone, which means a lot of time with his thoughts. Which sucks.

 

He’s become good at repressing a lot of thoughts about himself, about his needs, his wants. He only ever thought about what other people-- or rather, what one specific non-person-- wanted. He’d become the picture of a butler-- or maybe a dog with cool opposable thumbs-- always loyal, never questioning, following orders to the T, ready to ask “How high?” should his master tell him to jump.

 

So now that he was “free” of his leash, free of the tyrant who needed his every need met… what was there to think about? There was himself, there was Noah, and there was their fates-- the three things he abso-fucking-lutely did not want to think about.

 

He busies himself instead. He finds things to do. He scrubs the floors and walls, with the TV turned up so high in the background that he can’t even hear himself think. He tries to draw with the shitty little doodle pad laying around, but he finds himself thinking of Evan every time he picks up a colored pencil, so he journals instead.

 

He writes about everything he’s comfortable writing about. He writes down what he remembers about his friends, whom he bitterly notes are starting to fade from his memory.

 

Jeff’s curls, his soft eyes. He mentions how Jeff loved to write and create, how he was so loyal and so full of love for everyone around him. He was patient and funny and probably the best brother a guy could have. 

 

Brother. Try as he might, Vinny could not remember Jeff’s brother’s name. He remembers Sparky though. Was that fucked? Yes, he concludes, that’s pretty fucked.

 

Vinny remembers a time where he thought the bags under Evan’s eyes were pretty endearing. They were so heavy because he always stayed up too late with his art or his weapons or even just goofing off. He used to think of them, paired with that awful fashion sense, as Evan’s trademarks. Now they just reminded him of HABIT.

 

How much of Evan had HABIT stolen? How much of Jeff, of Stephanie, had he stolen before they died?

 

Stephanie. Fuck him, Stephanie. He’d barely even known her. Who was she, aside from a young woman who tried so hard to smile? He’d seen how she blinked back the tears and gritted her teeth when Evan proudly announced they were expecting. As a woman, she was regret incarnate. 

 

He doesn’t write that down. He writes that she was a pretty damn good painter, a firecracker; someone who loved one person-- one woman-- too much, too obviously, and made too many mistakes in the rebound. He had known it, Jeff had known it-- try as he might to ignore that anyone could have loved Jessa as much as him. The only ones who didn’t know it had suffered the most from it.

 

“She would have been a great mother.” he concludes simply.

 

He tries to think of something less depressing to add for his friends, though every memory he draws up makes him want to curl up and die. He’s about to write about how good Jeff looked in the suit he’d once worn to a family friend’s wedding, when a deep sigh in the other room stirs him from his thoughts.

 

He sets the journal down and walks to Noah’s room, leaning on the doorframe.

 

“Hey,” Vinny says softly.

 

Noah murmurs something, pained and indeterminable. Vinny moves to his side.

 

“What’s up, man?” he asks.

 

“Vinny…” Noah speaks slowly, with spaced-out syllables, as if every word, every fluctuation of his lungs brings a flurry of pain. If Vinny thinks about it, it probably does.

 

“What do you need? You don’t have to speak, you can just nod. Do you need water?”

 

“Vinny, no… Vih-” Noah weakly grabs his shirt, tugging at it to the best of his ability. Vinny crouches to eye level.

 

“Vi, you gotta…” Noah has to pause for air. “You gotta…” He holds up his arm, closing his limp hand in a circle, holding onto something imaginary. He moves his arm, bringing the imaginary object down violently.

 

“Noah, I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

 

“Cut ‘em. Cut ‘em ou--t.  _ Out _ .”

 

“The eggs?”

 

Noah nods.

 

“Noah, I can’t. You know I can’t.”

 

Noah stares at him-- or rather, stares through him. His mouth is agape, he’s wheezing in a way that makes Vinny hurt. “You gotta.”

 

“Noah…”

 

“I’ll… die.” Weakly, he throws his arms out, simulating an explosion with a “ _ Bwoosh! _ ” before flopping them back onto the bed.

 

“You-- you  _ might _ die. Maybe. Slim chance.” Vinny has nothing to go on but the Observer’s word-- it meant a whole lot of fuck all, but it was the only thing he had. His only hope. “But if I cut you open, you  _ will _ die, for sure!”

 

He takes Noah’s sweaty hand between his own. “Do you understand, Noah? Do you get why I can’t do that?”

 

Noah slips his hand out of Vinny’s grasp. “Don’t...touch me,” he slurs.

 

“Tell me you understand.”

 

Noah narrows his eyes at him. He turns over, groans, sleeps.

 

\--

 

Vinny should have known the day had come when, as if by a miracle, Noah’s fever had broken and he was mostly lucid.

 

Vinny comes in to check on him in the morning and he finds Noah awake, sitting up and staring out the window. He rubs his hand over his belly and sighs. The skin there is taut and purple, bruised; just looking at it makes Vinny cringe. 

 

He tries to ignore it as he takes a seat beside Noah on the bed.

 

“How we feeling?” he asks.

 

“Fine,” Noah responds. He sounds tired.

 

Vinny rubs his back and Noah leans against him, sighing. Noah looks up at him and there’s something--  _ something _ in his eyes, but Vinny can’t tell what.

 

“Thanks for umm, taking care of me. Dunno if I would have made it through without you.”

 

“It’s no problem. As long as you’re feeling better, that’s what counts.”

 

Noah nods. “Yeah… yeah.”

 

He slips back underneath the covers.

 

“You want me to leave you alone?” Vinny asks. 

 

Noah shakes his head. “Get under here with me.”

 

Vinny throws back the blanket and he does just that. They lay together on their backs for a while, awkward turtles. Vinny glances over at him. Noah had spent the past week in a fog of perspiration and pert near percolating skin. He’d been a babbling, crazy-talking mess, begging for death and other things Vinny just couldn’t give him. He’d rubbed against Vinny’s hand every time he’d come to wipe sweat from his brow, or dab cool water on his face. He’d grinned and clung every time Vinny moved him to change the sheets. And, God, when Vinny had to change his soaked clothing? Noah would just--  _ present _ himself. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted-- he would have almost looked sexy if the fever hadn’t made him the color of a tomato.

 

(And, obviously, if he’d been in the headspace to consent to the things Vinny was sure he was trying to ask for.)

 

Now, it seemed as if none of that had happened. It was like a normal, lazy Sunday morning. Noah sighs and lays his head on Vinny’s chest.

 

“Noah…” Vinny says quietly, warning in his voice.

 

“ _ What? _ ”

 

“You can’t do this.”

 

“Why the fuck not?”

 

Vinny doesn’t feel like arguing. As much as Noah looks better, he’s obviously still feverish and needs to be left alone. Vinny makes a motion to get up, but Noah clings to him.

 

“Vinny just-- just stop. Hold on.”

 

Vinny rolls his eyes and turns over to face Noah. Noah slides his arms around him, pulling their bodies close together. He buries his nose in Vinny’s neck and he sighs again. Noah’s whole body relaxes; Vinny can practically feel him melt. 

 

Despite the fever, the malnutrition, the pregnancy wracking his body, the trauma, the toll-- Noah’s grip is still firm, fast. Solid. Something resembling a foundation. Vinny almost laughs at the thought that Noah is something like a home. But he can’t laugh, because as much as he hates to admit it, it-- him, this-- feels too good.

 

Noah kisses him. Soft, weak. Gentle enough to make Vinny’s heart hurt.

 

He kisses Noah back, trying desperately to match that tenderness.

 

He feels it, a spark. He feels this. He feels Noah; he feels how right he feels with Noah.

 

He feels his heart is full to bursting. He feels words, three important little words, so heavy but so light, taking the fast track up his esophagus. He’s ready to spit them out, too, even if he doesn’t understand the gravity of them.

 

But just then Noah gasps, choking out a cry. He grips Vinny’s arms, letting out a series of short, tortured groans. His eyes go wide, tears springing forward.

 

“Noah?” Vinny asks. “Noah, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 

Noah can only shake his head and cry out, breath heaving. He curls up as best he can while still clinging to Vinny, his arms quaking desperately. 

 

He makes several attempts at speaking, but they all die in his throat, their ghosts escaping as hollow, animal sounds. He looks up at Vinny, silently pleading. 

 

Vinny nearly panics, unsure of what else to do until his memory finally clicks.

 

“I think I know what’s happening.” He tries his best to sound calm and collected. The results are a mixed bag. “Umm, Observer-- when you were passed out, he told me that the eggs would be...  _ dropping _ ? soon so that your body could adjust to them better. Maybe that’s… that’s what’s happening now?”

 

Noah manages to look at him incredulously before another wave of pain hits and he shrieks, digging his nails into Vinny’s arms. Vinny, fearful, can’t bring himself to be concerned at the blood being drawn.

 

\--

 

For no less than two hours they lay there like that, Noah wracked in pain and Vinny doing everything he can to comfort him. He finds the best solution is to simply talk Noah through it, distracting him by relaying the mundanes of the day. He tells him about the things that happened while he was out with his fever.

 

While Noah clings to him, nodding mindlessly at the voice that’s keeping him grounded, Vinny details the little routines he’s formed in his time at the house. How he avoids the stain in the living room carpet, the one that looks like a screaming face; how he makes sure to put the glasses in the cupboard upside down, so bugs don’t get inside; how he’s actually started flossing here.

 

He looks into Noah’s shining, distant eyes and he tells him that he’s the first thing he thinks of now, when he wakes up. Noah doesn’t respond with words; his eyes roll back and he shivers. Vinny takes it as a response-- what it means exactly, he’s not sure.

 

Eventually the pain seems to subside and Noah goes limp. Vinny places his hand to Noah’s forehead-- still too damn hot; he frowns. He flips the pillows and takes away the sweat-soaked cover, bringing him the lighter throw blanket from the living room. He tucks Noah in tight and sighs.

 

\--

 

Within hours Noah’s back on his feet. By dinnertime the next day he’s laughing, cursing and joking more than he had been for weeks. His pain has subsided greatly, and if he was being honest, he felt great.

 

“You look better,” Vinny confirms, using his fork to gesture to Noah.

 

“Wow, thanks, man.”

 

“I just mean healthier.” He points down to Noah’s stomach, which he’d caught a glimpse of after Noah had gotten out of bed. “You look flatter, too.”

 

“Huh?” Noah raises his shirt, patting his midsection. “Yeah, I guess so. it feels less gross, I can tell you that. I mean, it still looks fucking awful-- but it doesn’t feel like I’m gonna die every time I move.”

 

“Which is good!”

 

“Oh, for sure. Fuck me if they didn’t hurt going down, though. It felt like I was trying to digest a fuckton of anal beads, only all the anal beads were disconnected. And also alive.” He turns to Vinny, wiggling his fingers at him. “You know, I can feel them move around inside me sometimes. Vinny it’s so fucking nasty and-”

 

“Dude! I’m eating.” Vinny shakes his head at him, mouth full. “Spare me the details on your little xenomorphs right now, okay?”

 

Noah sits back in his chair, frowning. He stares at the ceiling and mumbles, “I wish they were xenomorphs. That’d be cool at least. Instead it’s just… whatever the fuck HABIT and the Observer put-”

 

His face wrinkles up.  _ Whatever they put inside of me. _ He can’t say it. He’d talked about the incident with Vinny before, no problem. But now-- he suddenly finds himself unable to say a simple sentence. He’d been stronger about it before. 

 

The words are like cotton on his tongue, but it’s the new crop of shame that chokes him more.

 

He’s quiet for the rest of dinner. He can’t bring himself to meet Vinny’s eyes.

 

\--

 

After they’ve cleaned the dishes, they decide to settle in for a rousing evening of game show reruns. They both occupy the couch, but Noah sits on the opposite side of Vinny, in a tight ball with his back against the arm. It’s an odd position, since he had to turn to face the television. Coupled with a nagging urge to keep an eye on Vinny, Noah’s gaze is constantly flitting back and forth.

 

The sudden wave of anxiety wears him out-- make him feel heavy, tired. He wants to sleep. He wants to be away from Vinny, who his brain is telling him will hurt him at any moment. Vinny is in league with HABIT, isn’t he? Even if he doesn’t want to be, that didn’t change the fact that the two of them are allies.

 

Suddenly he’s conflicted. Vinny wouldn’t dare hurt him, would he? It wasn’t as though he expected Vinny to try and kill him or anything ridiculous like that, but he could still  _ hurt _ him. Vinny could put his hands on Noah and  _ hurt _ him the same way HABIT and the Observer had.

 

His eyes scan Vinny quickly, panicked. He feels his own breath tightening.

 

Vinny sits relaxed. Calm-- not a care in the world. He either hasn’t noticed how visibly shaken Noah has become in the past several minutes, or he doesn’t care. He looks so serene, so handsome; Noah doesn’t want to believe Vinny could be capable of laying a finger on him.

 

And of course he wasn’t! Noah bites into his lip with his teeth, bites into his arms with his nails. Stupid! Fucking stupid, paranoid piece of shit! Vinny makes him so  _ happy _ . Years ago he would have fucking jumped at the chance to live with him, even if it was just for a little while! Egg shit aside, this was the happiest he’d been since before Milo had died, and he was fucking it up! Letting  _ them _ get under his skin! Giving them an even tighter hold over his stupid, jacked up brain! 

 

Lost in thought, he bites and bites and bites until he tastes blood. His wrists are snatched up and his hands, with their red-tipped fingernails, are yanked away. It pulls him out of his stupor. Suddenly Vinny is in his space.

 

Noah screams. With as much might as he can muster, he kicks Vinny away, sending him toppling back to the other side of the couch. 

 

Noah scrambles to his feet, chest heaving, body trembling.

 

“Don’t you ever fucking-- don’t you ever put your hands on me again!” Noah croaks. He sounds as small as he feels. “If you ever touch me again I’ll kill you!”

 

Vinny rubs the back of his head, which had connected with the couch’s arm. “Noah,” he asks, in that soft, disarming voice. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Shut up! Fuck you!” As sweet as Vinny could be, he wouldn’t fool Noah! And once he ascends, no one would ever make a fool of him again! Until then he just needed to keep himself safe from everyone-- especially this man, with his gorgeous visage and his honey-sweet words.

 

Vinny slowly rises, hands raised to chest height as a pacifistic gesture. He side-steps around the table, making slow movements in Noah’s direction. Noah, in turn, retreats towards his bedroom.

 

“What happened, man?” Vinny asks. “You were fine just a minute ago. Why are you acting like this? Are you still feeling sick?”

 

“Get away from me! Don’t-- Don’t talk to me, you fucking monster! Stop looking at me!”

 

“You’re acting crazy! Just tell me what’s wrong!”

 

Noah refuses. He runs to his only haven. In his panic, he fumbles with the doorknob, only to remember it has no lock. He sobs aloud, pounding his fist against the door as he slides down to the floor. If nothing else, he could use his body-- his underweight, weak body-- to brace it when Vinny came.

 

But he doesn’t come. He doesn’t chase. Noah leans against the door for hours, thoughts racing a mile a minute, waiting for invasion of his room and of his body. Nothing happens.

 

\--

 

When he finally moves from his place at the door, joints popping and limbs aching, the house is quiet and dark. At some point the television had been turned off and the lights had been extinguished. 

 

Noah cracks open the door, no more than an inch, in the hopes of catching his friend off-guard. He fully expects Vinny to be right outside the door, waiting patiently, ready to strike. Nothing awaits him.

 

So he shuts the door again and yanks open his night stand drawer. After  _ that _ visit months ago, he’d been smarter. He’d started keeping a knife by his bed, on the chance that some awful, awful thing might slither into his home, into him.

 

He clutches it hard enough to make his knuckles hurt.

 

Noah creeps from his room. Noah turns on the hall light so he can see. Vincent’s vague shape is on the couch. He’s asleep, body slowly rising and falling.

 

The knife feels like an extension of Noah-- a sixth finger. A third arm. Wings, sprouting from his shoulder blades. Unnatural, but sacred. Freeing.

 

He isn’t thinking, really. All he can imagine is Vincent on top of him. It’s one thing for HABIT and the Observer to violate him, repeatedly-- but if Vincent were to? If sweet Vincent were to hold him down by his throat and use him? Noah would rather die-- rather they both die.

 

He isn’t thinking, really. He just raises the knife. In his mind’s eye he sees himself bringing it down, penetrating sweet Vincent’s soft flesh over and over again. He isn’t sure why, but he feels as though he knows how to carve up someone, and now he would would use that knowledge five-- six hundred times, until his arm got too tired to swing. Then he would split his own belly and die like the fucking animal that he is.

 

He sort of laughs-- it’s a choking little sound, like he’s suffocating and trying to call for help. It’s foul, ghastly-- something that escapes his body, rather than something he forces out. It grates in his ears, pissing him off. Making him feel inhuman. 

 

Worst off all, it wakes Vinny. How can you kill a man if he’s awake?

 

“Noah?” His voice is sleepy-- and to Noah, just a little erotic. His stomach flips.

 

Vinny sits up slowly, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. His eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is slightly agape.

 

“Hey. You feeling any better? You wanna talk?” Vinny asks. He yawns loudly.

 

“Shut up.” Noah can’t bring himself to shout. “Don’t pretend you care about me.”

 

Vinny doesn’t respond, though his mouth sets in a tight frown. His eyes lazily travel up Noah’s arm, to the knife still held aloft. “What’s that?”

 

“It’s a knife, dipshit.”

 

“Why do you have a knife?”

 

“I’m gonna kill you.”

 

Vinny blinks at him slowly. “You’re gonna kill me?”

 

“That’s what I said! Clean out your fucking ears, you bitch!”

 

Vinny nods. Sighs. He searches Noah’s face for something-- what, exactly, Noah isn’t sure. But whatever it is, he seems to find it. He relaxes, shutting his eyes and opening his arms wide in waiting.

 

“All right,” Vinny says. “Kill me.”

 

Noah’s racing mind suddenly goes blank. “...What?”

 

“Kill me, if you want. I won’t have to go back to HABIT if you do, so, technically, you’d be doing me a favor.” When Noah doesn’t thrust the knife into him, Vinny adds, “C’mon, man. The sooner you do it, the better.”

 

Noah’s arm begins to cramp from the position. Frustrated and confused, he throws the knife down and shouts, pulling at his hair.

 

“You think I  _ want _ to kill you, Vinny? Of course not!” he screams.  _ I love you, stupid! _ “I’m just trying to protect myself!”

 

“From what?”

 

“ **_From you!_ ** ”

 

“...I see.”

 

Vinny pats the seat next to him. Slowly, like the first emergent from a fallout shelter, Noah makes his way to Vinny’s side. Vinny tries to put an arm around him. He flinches hard. The arm is withdrawn.

 

“What’s this about, Noah? Really about?” Vinny sounds like a lullaby when he speaks like that. Noah’s never heard him use that tone with anyone else-- all that softness is saved for only him. Noah’s toes curl; he doesn’t deserve that kindness. He’s a wreck, a hot heap of garbage with a perpetually fucky body and a brain like radioactive waste.

 

He’s crying now. Noah Maxwell is so fucking sick of crying over every little thing! He isn’t sure if it’s the compounded stress, the  _ relief _ from the compounded stress, or just whatever these kids are doing to his hormones-- but he hateds every second of it. He liked it better when he could drink or take a few anti-anxiety meds and trip out, not feeling a fucking thing.

 

He doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t want to live in the moment-- he hasn’t wanted to live at all for years! He sure as hell didn’t want whatever the fuck was happening right now-- between these  _ spawn _ and Vinny and all his fucked up thoughts, he was suffocating. He sputters, breathing hard. He’s hyperventilating. He feels like he can’t process the air-- had he punctured himself in the lung accidentally? Was he going to die now? Despite his eagerness to off himself just a few minutes ago, the idea of dying petrifies him.

 

Vinny kneels before him. He takes Noah’s hands and he squeezes them. “Noah-- Noah, look at me. Look, look.” He takes in a long breath, holds it, exhales. “Breathe with me, Noah.”

 

Noah lets Vinny coach him on the easiest fucking thing in the world. It takes more than a few shuddering breaths for him to get back into a steady rhythm, and even when he does, he scolds himself for needing help and he’ll choke or hiccup again. Vinny says nothing, simply keeping the rhythm. In, hold, out. In, hold, out--  _ ad infinitum _ . 

 

Noah leans forward, resting his head on Vinny’s. He melts, sliding off the couch and into Vinny’s open arms. Vinny holds him snug-- not too tight; he can escape if he wants to. But he doesn’t want to. He just loses himself in their breathing-- in Vinny’s embrace, which threatens to pull him in and hold him in an everlasting heaven of cotton shirts and the smell of cheap soap.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Vinny asks again, after some time.

 

“Okay,” is all he can muster. All he can be.

 

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

Does he? Not especially. This experience has been so draining, so frustrating that it had given him a migraine. He’d only just calmed down-- the last thing he wants is to actually talk about  _ it _ and turn back into a sobbing, drooling mess. So he shakes his head.

 

“That’s fine. We don’t have to. But if you want to, we can. You know that, right?”

 

“I know,” Noah confirms.

 

“Do you wanna get up? You’re probably tired, huh?”

 

Noah lets himself laugh a little. “I’m always tired, Vin.”

 

Vinny helps Noah to his feet before he stands up himself. Vinny groans and cracks his back. Noah glances between him and the couch. It’s probably not good for him to sleep on that shitty thing every night, so, fighting against the screaming alarms in his head, Noah makes a quick decision.

 

“Sleep with me tonight,” he suggests. “I mean, not… in a weird sexual way.”

 

Vinny chuckles. “You’re fine. I didn’t think you meant it like that, dude.”

 

Vinny hugs him. “I’d… I’d like that.” He looks down at Noah’s arms and fingers, still crusty with dried blood. “Why don’t you, uhh, wash that off and I’ll be right in.”

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, shit, I should.”

 

“Put some alcohol on those marks too, so they don’t get infected.”

 

Noah rolls his eyes and slinks away, running his hand down Vinny’s chest as he goes.

 

He washes up quickly, slapping Band-Aids on a couple of the nastier-looking cuts. When he’s satisfied with himself, and the dull throbbing of peroxide in his wounds, he drags himself to his room. 

 

As he passes by the entryway to the living room he spots Vinny, the knife in his hand. His shoulders are low, his head is resting in his palm.

 

In the morning, the knife is in its block.

 

\--

 

Waking up to each other feels like a dream. Despite the conflicted pile of goo that is Noah’s brain, opening his eyes to see Vinny asleep, in all his drooling, snoring glory, makes his heart race. His hand has flopped over to Noah’s side of the bed and he takes it, kissing the knuckles and rubbing his cheek against the back of it. 

 

Maybe it’s a little weird to be affectionate while Vinny’s still asleep, but Noah is enjoying himself. He contemplates the merits of shimmying into Vinny’s arms and securing a place there. He imagines settling in against him, bodies tight together, Noah’s head right beneath his chin. They could sleep for the rest of the day like that, not bothered by the light of the sun, or even, hopefully, the inevitable Florida sweatiness that would ensue.

 

After how exhausting yesterday had been, Noah would fucking love a day where they could do nothing and pretend nothing had happened. But, like an ice pick to his prefrontal cortex, a horrible thought shoots to the front of his brain. While he’s in Vinny’s arms, he could use the position against Noah. He could turn them over, pin him on the bed. Vinny had the size advantage, so he could easily hold Noah down while he choked him out. Then, when Noah was out, he’d…

 

Noah sets down Vinny’s arm gingerly, scooting off of the bed. His head aches, repeating the scene again and again.

 

“Give it a fucking rest, will you?” he mumbles, pouring himself some water. He sits at the kitchen table, cursing himself, cursing whatever part of his survival instincts it is that makes him believe his friend is a monster.

 

\--

 

A knocking jolts Noah awake-- at some point he must have fallen asleep, head on the table. Vinny is standing by the kitchen entrance. His face, painted up with worry and fear, makes Noah hurt with guilt.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Vinny gestures with a quick rise of his chin. “Can I, uhh, join you?”

 

“Sure, man,” Noah says with a nod, but flinches in spite of himself when Vinny gets closer.

 

Vinny sighs, just as exhausted as Noah is. He puts on a pot of coffee and then sits with Noah at the table, making sure his chair is as far from Noah as possible. They sit in silence as the coffee percolates in the background, the harsh churning and crackling sounding a bit too close to monstrous for both of them.

 

They stare each other down in the softest, least eye-contact-making way possible. Neither wants to say anything harsh, that might be misconstrued. If they had to choose between hurting each other and remaining quiet, both of them would prefer to never speak again.

 

But something was wrong-- something had changed yesterday. Something had scared Noah so badly that he, once so accepting of Vinny’s affection, is suddenly terrified of being touched.

 

The coffee pot grows louder.

 

Vinny has a few ideas, all awful, all involving Noah being hurt-- but no real evidence to support any of them. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to push, but he wants to help; wants to right the wrong both of them seem sure he’s committed. His skin feels tight, as though whatever he  _ really _ is inside is trying to burst out.

 

The coffee pot hisses, a loud and drawn-out whine. Vinny stands up (too suddenly; Noah tenses) and stomps to it, flipping the switch off and yanking out the pot.

 

“Damn thing. Piece of shit.” Vinny mutters as he fixes himself a mug of coffee. It’s tempting to leave it black, drink it scalding, perform a little self-punishment. 

 

No one, he decides, deserves to suffer through black coffee.

 

As he’s stirring in his sugar, his eyes catch the knife block, where the knife Noah had planned to stab him with stood vertical, high. Excalibur. It agitates him, mocking. 

 

He doesn’t mean to be cruel, but the words that leave his lips are venomous. “Do you still want to kill me, Noah?”

 

Noah shrinks in his seat, very much wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “No,” he replies softly.

 

Vinny places his mug on the table and crouches at Noah’s side. He looks up at him, wordless, until Noah has the guts to look him in the eye. At that point, Vinny takes his hand, squeezing it tight. 

 

“What happened?” Vinny asks. “You scared the shit out of me last night.”

 

“I know. I- I’m sorry. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”

 

“Were you… really going to do it? If I hadn’t woken up, would you have…?”

 

“I don’t-!” Noah catches himself, biting into his lip. He shouldn’t lie to Vinny; he can’t claim ignorance when he did, in fact, have an idea of what would have happened.

 

He speaks slowly. “I feel like… the way my brain was… if you hadn’t woken up, I-- I  _ would _ have done it. I would have killed you and then I would have killed myself.”

 

“Noah…”

 

“I’m sorry! Look, I’m fucking sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking-- I was scared!”

 

Vinny knows how scared he had been. The genuine, animal fear in Noah’s voice, in his eyes, had made it obvious. Fuck, even now, everything about his body language screamed fear. “Last night, you said you were protecting yourself from me.”

 

“I was! Or… I thought I was.” Noah looks down, focusing on their grasping hands. “I convinced myself that you were going to hurt me, and the only way to stop that from happening was...”

 

Vinny slowly brings Noah’s hand to his lips and, soft as snow, kisses it. Noah seems to be quite good at making him ache, both with his words and his actions. Vinny assumes it has a lot to do with how much he cares for the man. He wants to save the both of them, however he can. So the thought--which had bubbled up in his head last night, and brewed all the way up until now-- that he might have hurt Noah in some way, hindered their progress, kills him. 

 

His morbid imagination takes over-- he pictures HABIT, in a violation of their agreement, snatching his body from him and harming Noah in any number of unimaginable ways. HABIT was fond of leaving marks on anyone he didn’t kill, and if Noah was trying to hide his, it might explain his sudden inclination towards his long shirts, despite the increasingly warm temperatures. It would explain the jumpiness, the paranoia, the continuously worsening mood swings.

 

Vinny can’t bear not to know, so he asks. “Noah… have I hurt you?”

 

Noah seems genuinely shocked; his eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open.

 

“No!” he shouts. “You’ve-- You’ve never done anything to hurt me! Fuck, man, if anything you’ve been too nice!”

 

“Then why?”

 

“Because--” Tears spring into Noah’s eyes and he chokes on his words. His volume begins to drop, despite the anger in his words. “Because of those-- Because…”

 

Noah hugs Vinny to him as best he can in the awkward position. Vinny’s cheek rests on his swollen, aching stomach; Noah hides his face in Vinny’s hair.

 

“I’m sorry,” Vinny whispers to him. “I should have let sleeping dogs lie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

Noah shakes his head, whole body lurching as he sniffs, coughs. “It’s my fault. This whole fucking thing is my fault. I could have stopped it and I didn’t and they--”

 

His tongue is sandpaper, trying to rough out the sharp edges of the word. But no matter how much he mulls it over, no matter how much willpower he uses, there’s no way to make it palatable, sanitary. 

 

His voice is just a whisper, hollow and scarily distant. “They raped me, Vinny. They fucking… and I just let it happen.”

 

Vinny takes in a sharp, shakey little breath. He’d known; HABIT had told him all about what he and the Observer had done. But to hear it from Noah-- hear the hurt, feel the palpable shame-- made it so much more real.

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” is all Vinny can manage. “What could you have done?”

 

“I could have fought them, or let them kill me. That would have been better.”

 

It wouldn’t have, Vinny thinks, but he can’t bring himself to say something so selfish. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what this was like.

 

“The worst thing is,” Noah continues, “Is that I thought I was okay after it happened. I mean, yeah, I was in a ton of pain but nothing worse than I’d felt before. And I didn’t  _ feel _ bad-- It was like, this was just another fucking  _ thing _ to happen to me, ya know? Another check off the list of fucked up shit that’s happened to me. It wasn’t until yesterday that I really…  _ felt _ it.”

 

His hand comes to rest on his stomach and he rubs it, habitually. “Just thinking about these things inside of me-- I mean, actually thinking about it-- really… really set me off. The weight of it all came down at once. I feel disgusting.”

 

“You aren’t. You’re not disgusting. It’s their fault for hurting you, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I got off on it!” He pulls back from Vinny, his eyes shining, his voice hot and angry.

 

“...What do you mean?”

 

“I mean I got off on it! I fucking came while HABIT was screwing me! That means I liked it, doesn’t it? I got something out of it! That means it was my fault-- and it’s my fault for feeling this way! I don’t have a right to be upset about it.”

 

What’s Vinny supposed to say? Is there a right thing  _ to _ say? Probably not, but God, he’ll say anything if it helps.

 

“Umm, it’s not-- if it makes you feel better, you aren’t alone. HABIT’s my roommate, you know that, and sometimes he… touches.”

 

Noah freezes, his already upset face twisting up into something worse.

 

“I- I mean! It’s never been as bad as that-- what you went through. Noah, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make it worse.”

 

Noah pulls Vinny up to his chest, hugging his head and sobbing. He hadn’t even considered it, that he wasn’t the only one suffering. How fucking selfish was he? The only one he had to deal with on a regular basis was the Observer, who was a damn saint compared to HABIT. Vinny, who suffered silently, had to see that monster every day, live his life on its terms. Noah had seen the videos, seen what Vinny had been made to do. He couldn’t even fathom what was happening behind the scenes. His stomach lurches.

 

Vinny, as best he can in the odd position, clutches at Noah’s back, muttering into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t cry. Not for me. I’m okay, Noah, I’m okay.”

 

Vinny is a fucking liar. Both of them are. Every time they brushed off the sick shit that happened to them with “I’m Okay”s they were lying; every time they told themselves, told each other it would be all right, they were lying. Every time they prayed that it wouldn’t be so bad next time, they were lying. With every swig Noah had taken from the bottle, he was lying. Every time Vinny tiptoed around his own home to let the  _ dog _ sleep, he was lying. Every routine they’d had for the past decade-- for their entire lives (for all of Vinny’s lives)-- had been lies. Every decision, wrong or right, black or white, selfish or selfless-- all of them had been lies.

 

Worst of all,  _ this _ is a lie. This cozy little thing they have going on-- comfy, warm, mostly happy-- is a lie. They’re living together, they’re comfortable; they revel in each other’s company. (Or they at least  _ had _ , before Noah fucked it up.) Every morning he can wake up and Vinny is there, always protecting him, sometimes holding him. Whispering to him so sweetly that Noah worries he’ll die and come back as something soft, pastel, textured like velvet. Something with no penchant for revenge, no desire for comeuppance for himself-- for Milo, the most important-- just an undying need to live his days with this man, unbothered by animals and the human skins they sometimes wear. Selfishly, despite the guilt that has burned itself into his brain, that’s all he  _ wants _ . 

 

But he can’t have it, because this--the precursor-- is a lie. They don’t have a happy home, full of love-- they have something clumsy, and it’s surviving on borrowed time. Noah doesn’t believe for a second that this will last after the eggs are gone. He’ll give birth, doing whatever the fuck-all that entails, and while he recovers, entire body on the verge of collapse, Vinny will be plucked away. They’ll never speak to each other again, contact kept severed by hellion shitbags with nothing better to do than play  _ telenovela _ with real people. They’ll never see each other, locked away like the princesses in a cut-and-dry kids’ movie.

 

That’s why he has to maintain the lie-- the lie that he doesn’t look at Vinny and feel full to bursting; that he hasn’t been feeling an attraction for years now. The lie that he doesn’t love Vinny, doesn’t want to say it every time they lock eyes, lock hands, lock lips. The lie that if he  _ did _ say it, it would be fine-- everything would be fine. The power of love would vanquish HABIT and the Observer and the Administrator and The Collective and The Order and every other sick motherfucker who  _ lived _ to cause them misery. 

 

If he told himself it would work, would that give the dream power? 

 

He doubts it. So he lies.

 

“I’m sorry. I can’t protect you.” Noah, lost in the clawing, screeching rat king of his thoughts, doesn’t even realize he’s said it. “I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”

 

“You don’t have to--” Vinny stops, sighs. His knees had long since begun to ache, but only in Noah’s deafening quiet had he begun to notice. Carefully, with the gentleness one might reserve for a new lamb, Vinny removes Noah’s hands from him and he stands. The searing pain and popping in his legs makes him groan, but he powers through it. 

 

He bends over, slipping a hand behind Noah’s back, and another under his legs. He pauses for a moment, giving Noah time to protest before he promptly lifts him out of the chair. Despite the hefty brood he carries, Noah is surprisingly light. Years of a liquid diet have robbed his body of most of its fat and muscle, leaving him gaunt. Vinny vows to fix this when Noah can eat solid food again.

 

Noah. Noah steeps in his bitterness. Vinny’s arms, which usually felt so safe, serve as another reminder of his failings-- that he’s worthless, useless, always needing to be carried (metaphorically, if not literally). Be it by Vinny, or by Milo, or even by his own self-- who seems so knowledgeable but so untrustworthy; so far down the timeline, yet already so rooted in his  _ amygdala _ \-- Noah is incapable of doing anything on his own. He’s so damn incompetent that it makes him want to die.

 

But he does not die. Instead, he is laid down in the center of his (of  _ their _ ) bed, with Vinny kneeling over top of him. Vinny leans into him, pressing his sweet, rough lips to Noah’s cheek. 

 

He cringes when he realizes what he’s done, and he scolds himself. Now wasn’t the time, no matter how chaste he was being, no matter how good his intentions.

 

But Noah doesn’t object, doesn’t flinch; being touched doesn’t hurt at all, not like he feared. Maybe it’s a fluke, maybe it didn’t hurt because he was lost in his thoughts. Only one way to make sure.

 

He taps a finger to his chin.

 

Vinny kisses him. Noah sees fireworks behind his eyes. 

 

More daring now, Vinny’s lips meet his neck. They roam there, tender kisses igniting Noah’s skin, making him moan, making his hips buck. Noah tangles his arms over Vinny’s shoulders, running his fingers through and grasping a handful of Vinny’s thick hair.

 

“Kiss me,” Noah chokes out. “Fuck, please, kiss me!”

 

Vinny is happy to oblige, stealing his lips over and over and over again, kissing him until their jaws ache and they both wish they could get aroused; until Noah wishes he could take the love he’s sure that Vinny can give him. Maybe it could replace the shame that filled him, round and populous in its form. 

 

But he can’t take it, and Vinny can’t give it, so they kiss and they kiss until they’re both drained, and Vinny finds his rightful place at Noah’s side.

 

\--

 

“I’ll save you,” Noah mutters, when the room is pitch black and Vinny can’t see the uncertainty on his face. “I’m going to save both of us, you just have to give me enough time.”

 

In his soul, Vinny believes it, because Noah has already saved a small part of him. 

 

“I know you will,” Vinny says. “And I’m going to help.”

 

“You can’t! You’re only human, you’ll just get yourself killed!”

 

“Noah…” Vinny cups Noah’s face in his hands. “I’m not just gonna sit around looking pretty while you do all the work. I’m learning things, Noah-- about how this all works. It’s slow-going, but the gears are turning. And when that clock chimes? I’m gonna know how to get  _ rid _ of that tall, skinny fucker, do you understand?”

 

Noah nods softly. “Yeah.”

 

“But even if I know, I’m not sure I’ll be able to do whatever needs to be done on my own. It’s gonna take a lot of power to kill this thing-- or banish it. Whatever. I don’t care as long as it fucks off forever.

 

“Do you understand what I’m getting at? I’ll be able to help Firebrand-- help  _ you.  _ It can be a team effort.”

 

Vinny has all the pieces in front of him. Certainly, there were a thousand of them, and they were strewn all about the floor; certainly many of them were colored a solid black, and too few of them seemed to be edge pieces-- but they were in front of him, hungry to be put together. He didn’t know how his life connected to his lives, how the north star connected to Ohio, connected to Centralia, connected to his father. 

 

His father, who could have very well given him more than cryptic clues and the most un-fucking-helpful advice of his life.

 

Vinny shoves the bitterness down. No time for that, not here, in this refuge. Corenthal is safe in his eden, and Vinny is safe in  _ his _ . He has to focus on what’s important, focus on the gorgeous man in his hands.

 

“You trust me, Noah, don’t you? To do the right thing? Make sure we both have the info we need?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you trust me to stay alive?”

 

Noah, despite how desperate he is to believe that, hesitates. There were too many factors, half of which they knew next to nothing about-- too many ways it could go wrong. There’s ten million ways Vinny could die-- especially with the Administrator always within arm’s reach, and  _ especially _ if the Administrator finds out Vinny is onto him. If Noah lost the one person he could safely say (to himself, at least) that he loves, what would he do? What would that  _ drive him _ to do?

 

“I’ll worry about you,” Noah finally answers.

 

“I know you will, but it’ll be okay. I’ll live. And, hell, even if I don’t, this fucked up cycle will keep going, so I’ll come back again. It’ll just… take me a little while.”

 

He dips Noah’s head downwards, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

 

“You’d wait for me, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Vinny... I’d wait forever.”


End file.
